


For All the Things We Wished We'd Done

by gwyllion



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, First Kiss, First Time, Fix-It, Hand Jobs, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Mind Control, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Mind Control, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slow Burn, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:41:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 41,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26376706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwyllion/pseuds/gwyllion
Summary: Geralt realizes that he was wrong for scolding Jaskier on the mountainside. He rushes to catch up to him, but the bard has vanished. When Geralt finds him, Jaskier has been beaten and abused. With Yennefer's help, Geralt tends to the injured bard and learns that having loved ones who need him is not as problematic as he once feared. In fact, it’s everything he needs.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 35
Kudos: 257
Collections: Witcher Big Bang





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> For All the Things We Wished We’d Done was written for The Witcher Big Bang 2020. The title comes from the lyrics of the song [Love Run](https://theamazingdevil.bandcamp.com/track/not-yet-love-run-reprise), by The Amazing Devil. The writing of this fic has truly been a labor of love, especially since I broke my arm and was in a cast for two months while writing it. Thanks so much to my amazing artist [ gg-kinko](https://gg-kinko.tumblr.com). Thanks to my wonderful beta [ Gillian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gilli_ann) who always makes my writing better. Thanks to The Witcher Big Bang mod, serenfire, who did a great job keeping everything so organized. And, of course, thanks to The Witcher’s showrunner, author, and actors, who inspire all of us to make more art.
> 
> Check out the beautiful artwork that accompanies this fic here on Tumblr: [Geralt closed his eyes and nuzzled Jaskier’s hair. He left a soft kiss on the nape of his neck.](https://gg-kinko.tumblr.com/post/628803344466657280/geralt-closed-his-eyes-and-nuzzled-jaskiers) or here on Twitter: [Geralt closed his eyes and nuzzled Jaskier’s hair. He left a soft kiss on the nape of his neck.](https://twitter.com/Kinkoart/status/1303751329442127872)

By the time Geralt found Jaskier, the damage had been done.

~

Geralt stepped into the barn. The wet hay remained soundless beneath his boots. The absence of sound confirmed his worst suspicions. Instinct told him that no animal had sheltered in this barn for a long time. He raised his hand in the air to ward off a potential attacker, but no threat came. No rush of human breath had disturbed the air… perhaps for hours… maybe days. Geralt sheathed his steel sword, red with the blood of the men he had dispatched in the nobleman’s courtyard.

He took one look at Jaskier’s lifeless body dangling from the restraints and muttered, “Fuck.”

~

He had followed a tip he received a week earlier from a barmaid in a Temerian backwater. He didn’t admit to her that he sought the bard so he could offer his apology for the way he raged at him after Yennefer left them on the mountainside. No one would understand his need to make amends. Like everyone on the Continent, a lowly barmaid wouldn’t believe Geralt’s nobler intentions when she recognized him as a witcher. 

Witchers were known for their stoicism. They cared about only one thing—killing monsters for coin. They weren’t supposed to care about humans. 

The barmaid would believe that Geralt’s training, like that of all witchers, had crushed out any trace of human emotion he might feel. No one, barmaids included, would suspect that Geralt was capable of feeling something akin to _guilt_ over the way he treated Jaskier.

Yet, it was guilt. Despite the dearth of human emotion, Geralt knew he had been unfair.

The look on Jaskier’s face, when Geralt last left him, was seared into Geralt’s mind. The light had dimmed in Jaskier’s usually bright eyes. No sunny smile graced his lips. The slump of Jaskier’s shoulders, as he turned away, wounded Geralt more deeply than any blade, tooth, or claw. Jaskier’s sullen muttering about getting the story from the others so he could compose one of his annoying songs cut Geralt to the core. If this was guilt for turning his self-proclaimed “very best friend in the whole wide world” against him, Geralt needed to find a salve for it. Such guilt twisted like a burning knife in the pit of his stomach. 

Geralt’s hand slid down the front of his armour. He rested it above his belly, pressing upon the very human ache. So much for having no feelings.

Geralt couldn’t pinpoint the moment in time when he first began to care about the bard. He simply knew he had to find him now. He had to try to make things right, for Jaskier’s sake, if not his own.

Jaskier had flitted about, without a care in the world, as Geralt fought monsters and the battles of men, despite his unwillingness to get involved in their matters. Jaskier did not possess a skill with weapons or a sense of self-preservation, yet he courageously followed Geralt wherever he led. He bore the discomfort he experienced during their adventures with a hearty amount of pouting and whining. Such was his nature. But still, he followed. Jaskier would always follow Geralt. 

Until the one time when he didn’t.

Less than an hour had passed on the mountainside when Geralt recognized that he owed Jaskier an apology. Years of traveling with Jaskier had taught him the depth of the bard’s feelings.

Jaskier was more sensitive than most men. It took him months to get over the Countess de Stael, and weeks to forgive Geralt for his comment about his singing being like a filling-less pie. The most innocent slight saw Jaskier plucking sullenly on his lute before better sense prevailed and his smile returned. Geralt had strode down the mountainside, unwilling to prolong the inevitable. The loose dirt crumbled to dust beneath his boots. Stones skittered from the solitary path down into the valley.

But when Geralt returned to their camp, the bard was gone.

It took less than a day for Geralt to miss the idiot’s rambling. The ever-present chatter had accompanied him as they had travelled from town to town. Geralt kicked in his heels and directed Roach to make for the coast. Jaskier had suggested taking a trip to the coast before everything went to shit. Perhaps this was where Jaskier went to lick his wounds. Geralt would find him there. He rode into the afternoon but saw no sign of the bard.

Things might be different if Geralt had listened to Jaskier and accepted his invitation to get away for a while. At this very moment, they could be making camp on a high bluff with the endless valleys of the Continent stretched out below them. They would savour the taste of fresh fish cooked upon their fire. Geralt would listen to Jaskier strumming on his lute. He’d watch the bard take time to pen his lyrics in his ratty old notebook. They would sleep beside each other, Jaskier familiarly leeching the warmth from Geralt’s side as the witcher slept without the need for a heavy blanket or insulation from the ground below. Geralt’s nose would rest in Jaskier’s hair, like it always did, when they shared the same rough sleeping space. He would voluntarily wrap his arms around Jaskier to keep his complaints about the cold and the hard bed at bay. The ability to offer protection was a comfort Geralt had become accustomed to—although he always made it look like an accident.

Geralt craved this connection with Jaskier, much more than he had imagined he would if it were removed from his life. He mourned the loss of it. He had always spoken roughly when irritated. But the episode on the mountainside was different. He had hurt Jaskier deeply.

In the week that followed, regret spread its way into Geralt’s mind like a potion that sought first to destroy a virus, before leaving a promised healing balm in its wake. He needed to act to receive his cure, to put his racing mind to rest. He spurred Roach harder, promising her a long break after their hard days of travel.

By the time he reached Temeria, Geralt longed to hear Jaskier’s voice. He imagined their next meeting. The bard would berate Geralt for scolding him on the mountain. He’d wear new garb that he splurged on, using his remaining coin to soothe his anguish with expensive silk and a feathered hat. A pint of ale would give him the courage to speak his mind against the witcher—not that Jaskier ever had too much trouble seeking the most effective words, where Geralt was concerned. After Jaskier spewed a sufficient amount of sarcasm while waving his hands dramatically, he’d forgive Geralt for his shortcomings. This time would be no different than the countless times in the past. Jaskier’s smile would return before Geralt could miss it too terribly.

But when he arrived in Temeria, Geralt learned that he had been too late.

He checked into the tavern before dusk and listened for the sounds of a bard strumming on his lute, but the place was silent and had few customers. When Geralt inquired about the bard, the barmaid seemed to acknowledge the troubled look in Geralt’s eyes. She handed over a pint of watery ale and joined him at his table in the darkest corner, a familiar empty space that Geralt usually preferred.

“Your friend was not particularly welcome here,” the barmaid said tentatively. 

Tiny droplets of sweat formed on her forehead—something that would have been barely perceptible to an ordinary human. Geralt sensed the increase in her heartrate. 

“Hmm,” Geralt murmured. 

The barmaid said nothing.

Geralt was reminded of how Jaskier could interpret his utterings so efficiently. A tilt of Geralt’s head, a grunt, a twitch of a facial muscle. Jaskier knew Geralt’s thoughts exactly. If not, he could always lead him into conversation with a gentle, _“Talk to me, Geralt.”_ The simple inquiry in the bard’s calm voice had Geralt opening up with a trust he never afforded to other humans.

Damn that bard for wrapping his fingers around Geralt’s heart so tightly. Geralt placed his gloved hand on his chest, feeling the tightness as a palpable ache.

“What aren’t you telling me?” Geralt finally asked. 

The barmaid looked around, but there was no one near enough to listen. “It was his singing,” she whispered conspiratorially. 

Geralt frowned.

Jaskier had a fine voice, despite his habit of singing constantly, composing heartfelt ballads and bawdy rhymes on the fly as they travelled. What had he done to offend the tavern-goers? Had something happened to Jaskier’s voice, like when the djinn made him gasp helplessly for breath?

The barmaid averted her eyes and picked at a drop of coagulated cheese on the tabletop.

“His voice?” Geralt asked. 

“Oh, no, his voice was lovely, when we could understand his words,” the barmaid said, sighing wearily.

“What was the problem then?” Geralt asked quickly.

“It was his songs. Such laments had never filled our tavern before. He made everyone so sad with his songs of unrequited love. We begged him for a jig or a tune that the patrons would enjoy—even that annoying “toss a coin to your witcher” song, but instead he wailed about how his lovely garrotter had left him, weak and wanting. He reminded everyone of the times in their lives when they had lost their loves. Women cried. Men shifted uncomfortably in their seats. With every song, the bard collapsed into a sodden pool of his own tears.”

“Hmmm,” Geralt grunted. Jaskier was worse off than he thought. He had clearly taken Geralt’s admonishment to heart.

“Look, people come to the tavern to have a good time, not to be reminded of their sorrows. After two nights of Jaskier’s performances, the tavern manager sent him on his way,” the barmaid said, shaking her head. “I’ve never seen such a sorry lad as he, moping his way down the road without a single coin in his pocket.”

“Did he say where he was headed?” Geralt asked.

“No, but you might try Cidaris. He looked like he was headed in that direction,” she said. “The poor sod. Perhaps he had better luck resolving his grief on the journey there.”

~

Three nights later, Geralt arrived in Cidaris long after dark. He brought Roach to a stop before they reached the main square. The tavern would be closed this late in the evening, so there was no point in visiting to ask for news about Jaskier. Besides, Geralt knew he would not find Jaskier there. Instead, he followed the scent of juniper that wafted through the air. He first noticed it at daybreak, but its intensity had grown throughout the day, until Geralt knew he was not mistaken.

Geralt followed the scent of Jaskier’s fear.

He had travelled enough with the bard to know every scent that Jaskier emitted. From the lily-scented tears as he tried to get over a lost love to the spiced scent of his arousal when a pretty maid kissed him. He knew the musky sage of perspiration at the small of Jaskier’s back when he walked ahead of Geralt and Roach on a sunny day—and the distinctly juniper scent of his fear.

When some horror befell Jaskier—an elf threatening to destroy both him and Geralt, a rickety path suspended high above a valley, a run-in with Yennefer, only then did Jaskier ever smell of juniper. Jaskier hadn’t emitted a fearful scent when he was with Geralt alone, strange as that was, knowing how most humans felt about witchers.

Humans feared Geralt. Few would offer him a kind word, let alone companionship, as Jaskier had done. The bard’s kindness was unexpected to the degree that it made Geralt downright uncomfortable most of the time. He had done nothing to deserve such careful attention. Yet Jaskier praised him in song and helped him earn contracts on the merit of his reputation.

Geralt was simply doing what he was trained to do. He killed monsters, collected his coin. He was nothing special.

Geralt guided Roach along the dirt track. An evening fog had settled over the adjacent meadow. The sharp trail of Jaskier’s fear remained in the stillness like the disquiet in an empty sky after a lightning strike. Following the scent led Geralt to a villa on the outskirts of town. He slowed Roach’s pace and surveyed the grounds. The opulence suggested that it was a nobleman’s residence.

Roach nickered into the air, heavy with dew.

Geralt quieted Roach and left her in a grassy patch, out of view from those who might dwell nearby. The villa and its outbuildings, including the old barn where Geralt’s senses led him, were lightly guarded. He swiftly approached one of the guards who patrolled the perimeter of the villa. His swords remained at the ready, but Geralt held his hands open to insinuate that he meant no harm.

“What’s your business here?” the guard asked.

“I’m looking for a bard,” Geralt said.

The second guard jogged up to where Geralt stood.

“I don’t know what game you’re playing, but you’d best be on your way before you’re dealt the same fate as him,” he insisted.

Geralt inhaled sharply. He knew Jaskier was nearby. The scent of Jaskier’s fear in the air did not lie. And these two guards reeked of it.

“Where is he?” Geralt pressed. The weight of his steel in its sheath reminded him that he could strike these two down if they had harmed Jaskier.

With an elbow, Geralt disarmed the one guard and held him roughly around his neck.

“What have you done with him?” Geralt asked with a sharp twist of his hold. This motivated the guard into speaking.

“Lord Mathen caught him with his son. He only gave the bard what he was due,” the guard choked out, while the second guard drew his sword.

Without warning, a dagger stabbed into the meat of Geralt’s thigh. The guard, who Geralt held, had produced the weapon and stabbed furiously at the witcher.

Geralt bent his knees and hoisted the man, flinging him onto the second guard’s drawn blade. A gurgle came from the man’s throat as he fought for air. Unsheathing his steel, Geralt finished him off. The second guard, now disarmed, was no match for Geralt. He plunged his sword into the man’s chest, the scent of Jaskier still rolling off him in waves.

Geralt didn’t need to inquire further. This was Lord Mathen’s residence, although Geralt didn’t think his son, Ethain, was Jaskier’s type.

Years of travel with Jaskier had taught him that it was only a matter of time before Jaskier’s sausage-hiding would get him into more trouble than it was worth. A Lord’s son… this time Jaskier had outdone himself.

Geralt’s thigh stung as if it had been attacked by a hive of angry bees. He inspected the wound, grateful that the guard only hit his mark a few times. He would heal quickly enough. Right now, he needed to find Jaskier.

Geralt’s worrying over what he would discover when he stepped into the barn was not enough to prepare him for Jaskier’s state.

The knotted rope had worn Jaskier’s wrists bloody, a testament to his efforts to escape. His feet did not quite touch the ground. The worst part wasn’t Jaskier’s naked arms stretched upward, tighter than lute strings. Nor the crisscross of the whip’s lashes that marked his back like a roadmap of the routes across the Continent. Nor was it the sight of his fingers, broken and twisted in such ways that no man’s fingers were meant to bend.

No, the worst part was that this was all Geralt’s fault.

If he had not sent the bard on his way. If he had not railed at him that life’s greatest blessing would be to have Jaskier gone, the bard never would have dissolved into tears in Temeria. He would not have sought companionship in Cidaris. Nor would he have suffered the fate to which such tenuous companionship led.

A churning rage boiled within Geralt. He had no answer for it, no calm words to quell its fury. The rage could only be directed at himself.

Somewhere outside, a dog barked, but Geralt paid little attention to the sounds of the villa. Instead, he focused on Jaskier’s limp body that hung before him from the rafters.

Jaskier’s silken doublet lay on the ground in tatters. His trousers hung low on his hips.

Geralt used his teeth to tear off his right glove and let his fingers slide over the mottled flesh of Jaskier’s shoulders. Purple and red blossoms coloured his skin. A rivulet of blood crept inexorably toward the wet hay strewn across the floor of the barn beneath Jaskier’s bare feet.

Geralt’s eyes went to the ceiling where a rope, threaded through an iron bolt, held it to a wide beam at the top of the barn. He scented the air and determined that Jaskier’s body was caked with a mixture of blood, mud, and semen. His quick takedown of the villa’s watchmen was far too merciful. If he had the chance to do it again, Geralt would take the time to make them suffer.

Geralt gritted his teeth. He knew Jaskier could be a bit of a troublemaker when it came to seeking a bedmate- he had often implied so himself. But still, he could have done nothing that warranted this level of abuse. He winced when he imagined Jaskier’s pain.

Whatever caused the bruising and the slashes must have hurt, but there were worse things to endure than physical pain for Jaskier, a lover of fine clothing, poetry, and art. His ruined clothing, broken fingers, and missing lute were bad enough, but perhaps worse for Jaskier would have been the stinging knowledge that Geralt had sent him away and wouldn’t be trying to find him. Jaskier knew he was alone in his suffering. 

Geralt knew well what it felt like to be abandoned. He would never wish such torment on Jaskier. 

Whatever physical pain Jaskier had endured, it had been multiplied by Geralt’s harsh words when they parted. It was Geralt’s fault that the bard found himself in Cidaris in the first place. 

An overwhelming wave of sadness rolled through Geralt. He leant close and touched his fingers to Jaskier’s chest. The bard had so much fucking hair. His fingers brushed through the dense swirls and sought out some skin as they searched for a sign of life. Geralt sometimes wondered what Jaskier’s bared chest would feel like beneath his hands, but he never wanted it to be under circumstances like these.

He hadn’t much hope to find warmth with his fingers, so it was a surprise when he sensed a faint hint of heat rising from Jaskier.

“Jaskier,” he said imploringly. “It’s me, Geralt.”

When there was no sign of Jaskier’s breathing, Geralt focused all his meditative energy into the bard. He groaned with a hand pressed to Jaskier’s chest. Summoning whatever power he could access, he concentrated deeply and drove everything he had into making Jaskier’s lifeblood thrum. He knew he had to make up for the way he treated Jaskier and for all that had happened to him. He had to keep him alive. A roll of thunder, like the beating hooves of a hundred horses, surged through Geralt’s core as he ministered to the bard. 

Jaskier, with his head low, slowly turned to face Geralt.

Geralt nearly thought that he had imagined it. He closed his eyes and sought the beat of the bard’s heart, somewhere beneath the abused flesh.

“Dammit Jaskier, come back to me,” Geralt gritted out when the sensation of Jaskier’s heartbeat seemed beyond his grasp.

And then, Jaskier’s eyes flickered open for a split second. He struggled to move his crippled fingers.

“Hang on,” Geralt said. He reached for his sword with one hand and wrapped the other around Jaskier’s suffering form. 

With a single slice, Geralt cut through the rope that held Jaskier suspended from the beam. He braced himself to take Jaskier’s weight with one arm as the bard fell into his grasp.

“Geralt…?” Jaskier asked, his voice ragged. “I didn’t think you’d… come…”

Geralt sheathed his sword. 

Jaskier’s eyes rolled back into his head as he slumped into Geralt’s embrace.

“Stop talking, Jaskier,” Geralt said. “Let’s get you out of here.”

A commotion arose outside the barn. The hushed tones of voices and the sound of steel being drawn gave Geralt a warning.

Geralt led Jaskier to a bale of old sour hay and deposited him upon it.

“They’ve had their fun with him and he somehow escaped,” a voice said from outside the barn.

“And killed two men in the process? Impossible. He looked too rough when I saw him. He’s hiding—”

Geralt cut the man down as soon as he entered the barn. His head rolled across the hay and came to a stop at Jaskier’s feet. 

The second man ran back toward the villa, unwilling to face Geralt’s fury.

“Come on,” Geralt said, hoisting Jaskier from the hay bale. “We’ve got to be quick.”

Jaskier barely lifted his head when Geralt took his arm.

Careful to avoid touching Jaskier’s scourged back any more than necessary, Geralt hoisted Jaskier over his shoulder and stormed through the meadow to where Roach waited. It broke him to hear Jaskier’s pitiful groans. 

With one hand, Geralt quickly gathered Roach’s reins and commanded the horse to dip low enough for him to mount while holding Jaskier. The sound of men’s footsteps rushing from the villa broke the silence of the woods at the edge of the meadow.

“Up you go,” Geralt said, softly. He sat Jaskier in front of him and took the reins. 

Jaskier shivered in the cold, but he made no sound.

Geralt wrapped his arms around Jaskier as best he could. He spurred Roach on to escape any of Lord Mathen’s men who unwisely pursued them. It took a special kind of idiot to chase after a furious witcher. Geralt hoped they would not have to ride far to reach a place where Jaskier was safe from their torture.

The meadows of the lowlands gave way to a forest of spruce and pine. Geralt pushed Roach as much as he dared. He dodged branches that emerged from the darkness to whip at his face. Roach sustained some scrapes along the way, but they were nothing that the resilient mare couldn’t handle.

Jaskier still hadn’t spoken again and it worried Geralt. They rode with Jaskier slumped onto Geralt’s right arm, the same arm he used to steady Roach with the reins. Geralt stripped off his left glove and used his fingers to check Jaskier’s neck for a pulse. A faint beat of blood through Jaskier’s veins met the touch of Geralt’s fingers. Satisfied that Jaskier was still alive, Geralt sighed with relief. He gently massaged the back of Jaskier’s neck, sending healing power to _his_ bard as they rode.

They entered a forest of hardwoods and Geralt considered whether it would be best to make camp or continue until they found a more sheltered place to spend the night.

Although Jaskier said nothing, Geralt whispered words of encouragement, telling him how brave and strong he was. He hoped that Jaskier could hear him. He focused on touching Jaskier’s chest where his hand rested as he held him in place, kneading gently to assure Jaskier that he was safe and cared for. Everything would somehow be resolved, and he would regain his strength. Geralt almost wished that he could sing a soothing song to Jaskier, to help him sleep without worry, but he had not paid nearly enough attention to the tunes that Jaskier composed for it to be an adequate comfort.

When it seemed safe to stop so Roach could rest, Geralt brought the horse to a halt. He did not dismount, he merely checked Jaskier’s condition to make sure the bard was still breathing. He felt the cold emanating from Jaskier’s skin. 

A fire would be best to warm Jaskier, but for now Geralt wanted to find the spare cloak in Roach’s saddlebags. He struggled to free the garment from where it was stored. He briefly considered giving Jaskier a potion that would mitigate his pain, but he feared that Jaskier’s broken body would not be able to tolerate even the mildest of potions that the witcher possessed. 

Jaskier, with fingers broken and a battered body, needed more help than Geralt could give him in the woods of Cidaris.

Geralt knew there was only one person alive who could help him, but she was miles away. Geralt could never push Roach to find her in time to save Jaskier’s life. He hoped that she had forgiven Geralt from all the misery he had caused her in the weeks that had passed since he last saw her.

“Yennefer,” Geralt pleaded into the night sky. “I need your help.”

Geralt paused to listen to the night. 

The woods were silent.

In the dim forest, Geralt freed the cloak and leant back to properly wrap it around Jaskier. He observed the bloody lash marks on Jaskier’s back, the skin a dark purple from all that he withstood.

He secured the cloak and wrapped his arm around Jaskier, knowing that he was to blame for the bard’s injuries.

“Yenn,” Geralt pleaded with what little hope remained. “Please.”

The fresh breeze in the branches promised what Geralt had hoped for. Twigs snapped, Roach neighed, the wind circled the branches into a delicate vortex of light. Relief washed over Geralt when Yennefer, wearing a flowing robe of black and silver, stepped from the centre of the portal and touched her feet to the forest floor.

~

“What do you want, Geralt?” Yennefer asked, her eyes flaring with fury.

“Fuck,” Geralt said. 

It was an exceedingly bad idea to call on Yennefer after what transpired weeks earlier. Jaskier’s ruined state called for desperate actions though, and Geralt was willing to give it a try. He dismounted from Roach’s back, but he supported Jaskier with a strong hand on his thigh to keep him from falling off the horse. 

“I don’t blame you for being angry with me, but I need your help,” Geralt said, hoping she would take pity on him.

“You need help with your _friend_ yet again, I see,” Yennefer said smugly.

“Hmmm,” Geralt grunted. He wasn’t sure whether Jaskier could even be called a _friend_ anymore. 

“This is getting to be a habit,” Yennefer said.

“I treated him badly,” Geralt admitted.

“You treat everyone badly,” Yennefer snarled.

Geralt shook his head. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything- the way I spoke to you on the mountain, everything. I have much to learn about how to speak to people I care for.”

“Don’t patronize me,” Yennefer spat out. “I’ve seen first-hand how you treat the people you care for.”

Geralt looked to Jaskier, fearful that he would fall dead off Roach’s back at any moment.

“He’s dying,” Geralt pleaded.

“Let me guess… once again, the mighty witcher does not want the last words he said to the bard to be the last thing he ever hears.”

“Something like that,” Geralt said. “Yennefer, please. It was wrong of me to ridicule you for wanting to be a mother. You told me how badly you wanted it and I used it against you when things didn’t go my way. When Borch told you the truth… I was wrong. I do care about you, even if you think I’m being patronizing.”

Yennefer stepped forward to where Jaskier was slumped over Roach’s back.

“What happened to him this time?” Yennefer asked. “A djinn? A dragon attack? Or something more sinister? I can’t say he didn’t deserve it, if either were the case. You may recall that he was extremely rude to me the last time we met.”

“He simply made fun of your poor taste in jokes,” Geralt apologised for the silent Jaskier. “He’s a bard. He speaks his mind as soon as he has a thought. It’s what he does.”

“He looks like shit,” Yennefer said.

“Well, he’s been beaten… tortured.” Geralt shuddered at his words. It was as though voicing the status of Jaskier’s condition made it worse. It made it more real. The ache of his guilt settled deep in Geralt’s core. 

“I don’t owe you, or him, anything,” Yennefer said. She reached for Jaskier’s neck and placed her fingers on the bruised flesh. She squinted and looked puzzled.

“I thought you might be able to help him,” Geralt said.

He didn’t mention their destinies being linked because of the wish he made with the djinn, but that was really the whole point of calling on Yennefer, wasn’t it? If Geralt was linked to Yennefer, then Yennefer was somehow linked to Jaskier. Surely she wouldn’t let him die if he were someone important to Geralt. They were in this together, whether Yennefer wanted to be or not.

“He doesn’t have much time left,” Yennefer said, wiping her hands together.

Geralt’s eyes went wide. “Is it too late for you to help him?” he asked. He mentally calculated which potions in Roach’s saddlebags could help Jaskier, knowing that such drastic treatment might leave the bard worse off than he was now. He had to be willing to take that chance if Yennefer refused to help him.

“We’ll know soon enough,” Yennefer said. “But I’m going to expect something in return for this, if it works.”

Geralt’s fingers tightened on Jaskier’s thigh. Yennefer’s uncertainty undid him. “I’ll give you whatever you want,” he said.

Yennefer stepped through the edge of the swirling portal, turned to Geralt, and said, “Then, what are you waiting for?”

~

Geralt carried Jaskier over one shoulder as he followed Yennefer through the torch-lit corridor. He stepped through the elaborately carved door that she held open for him. The room he entered had high ceilings with windows draped in gossamer. In the centre of the room, marble pillars framed the large bed, piled high with thick blankets and furs.

Yennefer always loved marble pillars in her bedroom, Geralt recalled. 

A pair of plush chairs sat against a wall. A few candles burned, illuminating the space enough so Geralt could see without adjusting his golden eyes. The scent of lilac and gooseberries wafted from a trickling waterfall that graced one corner of the room. The gentle fall of water over the stones gave the room a deep sense of tranquillity.

Bracing an arm around Jaskier’s thighs, Geralt carefully deposited Jaskier on the bed while Yennefer used her magic to start a fire in the fireplace. Geralt sat on the edge of the bed beside Jaskier. He slipped his hand beneath the cloak and pressed his hand to Jaskier’s cold chest while he waited for Yennefer’s instructions. He had to admit that it was generous of Yennefer to accommodate the bard in a spacious suite while she treated him. He was sure Jaskier would not have survived the night if he relied on a rough campsite in the woods for warmth and shelter. Yennefer would deserve something important in return for her kindness.

Roach made it through the portal with only a minimal stumble. She now fed on hay in the stables that Yennefer’s spacious manor house provided. Geralt appreciated the care Yennefer afforded to Roach, but while the horse was none worse for wear, Jaskier was less fortunate.

The bard hadn’t said anything since Geralt hoisted him onto Roach to escape Lord Mathen’s men. The trip through the portal hadn’t elicited any comment from him, for better or worse.

Satisfied with the fire, Yennefer walked toward the bed, stopping at the bard’s side, opposite of Geralt.

“He’s not well,” Yennefer said, with her palm against Jaskier’s forehead. 

She knelt on the bed, sinking down into the sumptuous bedding to get a closer look at Jaskier. Her eyes surveyed the bard’s face while she contemplated his condition. She removed her hand from his forehead and unfolded the woollen cloak in which Geralt had wrapped him. Her violet eyes scanned over the bruises on Jaskier’s chest and flitted to the broken fingers. The whip’s lash marks curled cruelly from his back so they were visible on the front of his body.

“Surely there’s some magic you can perform to help him,” Geralt said. He no longer cared what payment Yennefer expected from him. Getting Jaskier restored to health was his priority. 

From across Jaskier’s broken body, Yennefer scowled, “Maybe so, but it’s not magic that harmed him. His injuries... the physical injuries… this was the doing of human men.”

“Don’t look at me,” Geralt retorted. “I’m not human.”

Yennefer pulled her resplendent robe tighter around her shoulders and levelled her eyes at Geralt. “Tell me something I don’t already know,” Yennefer said, sounding smug. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re feeling guilty for what happened to your bard.”

Geralt hummed, but said nothing. He’d be damned if he was going to admit to Yennefer that he blamed himself for Jaskier’s beating at the hands of others. Such guilt was a bit too human for him to embrace in Yennefer’s presence, although it crept silently through Geralt’s bones with every passing hour.

“He’s running a fever,” Yennefer said. “I fear he will get worse before he gets better.”

“He’s lost a lot of blood,” Geralt added, remembering the slippery wet hay on the floor of the barn.

Yennefer righted herself on the bed. “Sometimes, when a human suffers multiple injuries simultaneously, the body cannot keep up with processing what has happened to it. A human body is only meant to withstand a finite amount of abuse.”

“His fingers,” Geralt said. It was the first time he allowed himself to consider what the loss of the use of his fingers would mean for Jaskier. A bard who couldn’t play his lute again was like a bird without wings. Jaskier would be devastated.

“Human bones can heal,” Yennefer said, “but I shouldn’t need to remind you that there are some things that cannot be treated with splints and potions.”

Geralt didn’t have to wonder what Yennefer was talking about. He had spent enough time around humans, especially the poetic Jaskier, to know that Yennefer spoke of Jaskier’s broken spirit.

“Fuck,” he said, mired in the knowledge that he could have prevented Jaskier’s suffering.

“I’ll summon my handmaidens to bathe him. Then, I’ll prepare a healing potion to prevent infection from the lacerations on his back. It should free him from some of the pain of these bruises and his internal injuries as well,” Yennefer said, rising to leave.

“Can I help?” Geralt asked. The offer was the least he could do.

“You should stay here with him, in case he awakens. A familiar face might ease his mind. But do try to treat him kindly. Use your words, Geralt, and consider their effect on the people you care for before they erupt out of your mouth. Like the first time you brought him to me, you two did not part under the best of circumstances, and if we’re being honest here, neither did you and I,” Yennefer said, resting a hand on Geralt’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt said. He had resolved to say it as many times as necessary if it meant Yennefer would help Jaskier. 

Yennefer looked sceptical. “Wait here with him. But I’m going to need your help setting his broken fingers when I return,” she said.

“Hmm,” Geralt agreed.

“I’ll also remind you that I’m going to expect much from you in return for this favour,” Yennefer said as she walked away.

Geralt could not offer a reply. He simply watched Yennefer exit the room through the heavy door. He reached for Jaskier’s hand, but he thought better of it when he saw his crippled fingers. Instead, he gently touched Jaskier’s wrist and silently vowed to give Yennefer whatever she wanted if she could restore Jaskier to health.

It wouldn’t be the first time.

~

The fire had warmed the room considerably. Geralt tugged at his neckline to cool himself. He inspected the stab wound on his thigh and found it had stopped bleeding. He’d remove his armour when the handmaidens came. For now, he was content to watch Jaskier’s face, free of expression, including pain. He felt the slow pulse in Jaskier’s wrist and satisfied himself with the knowledge that Jaskier was still alive and that Yennefer would help him.

Before long, a soft knock rapped at the door.

Geralt took his hand from Jaskier’s wrist and said, “Enter.”

A pair of maidens wheeled a tub of water into the room. Geralt thought he recognized the women from the time he and Jaskier first met Yennefer. It was hard to tell though, since the maidens who were here to attend to Jaskier today wore modest clothing. Their soft tunics and trousers, in muted shades of sand and stone, allowed for efficient work.

Another maiden entered, carrying a tray of fragrant soaps and oils, while yet another woman brought what Geralt presumed to be some fresh clothing for Jaskier. The maiden with the clothing smiled gently at Geralt, and said, “Mistress told us you would stay, but we’ll need you to move away so we can care for the injured bard. You may want to make yourself comfortable in a chair.”

Geralt nodded at her and returned his gaze to Jaskier. He patted the back of his hand as if to alert him that he was taking his leave. Stepping away, he unbuckled his armour. He let it drop to the floor before he found a seat in one of the plush chairs at the perimeter of the room. From there, he watched while the maidens bathed Jaskier.

The maidens, moving automatically under Yennefer’s spell, treated Jaskier tenderly. They spoke in hushed tones and used gentle hands. Jaskier remained unconscious. When he awoke, he’d be sorry to learn that he missed the experience. A grin tugged at Geralt’s mouth. He could only imagine the songs Jaskier would compose if he were a witness to the lovely maidens single-mindedly caring for him.

From across the room, Geralt watched as the maidens used the steamy water from the tub to wash Jaskier’s hair before proceeding to wash the blood and filth from his body. They gently turned Jaskier over so they could tend to his injuries.

Geralt cringed at the sight of Jaskier’s back. The angry lash marks bloodied his skin and left streaks of welted flesh in their wake. He averted his eyes when they removed Jaskier’s trousers. It seemed voyeuristic for Geralt to be a keen observer of the bard’s nakedness, although he had seen him naked many times in their travels together. He didn’t need to watch to know that Jaskier was more muscled than his garish bard costumes led one to believe. Or that his nipples were the shade of a summer rose.

Geralt picked at a splatter of blood that had dried on his trousers. Lord Mathen’s men were far from Geralt’s mind now, but he was still angry that he hadn’t made them suffer more for what they had done to Jaskier. His thoughts were interrupted when one of the maidens came to him with the cloak that he had wrapped around Jaskier while they were on Roach’s back.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

He folded the cloak, now bloodstained and mostly useless until it could be washed and mended. He set it atop his armour.

He observed as the maidens cleansed Jaskier’s hands, taking particular care with his fingers. They bathed his torso, his arms, and his chest. Each time a maiden used her cloth to wash the abused flesh, more bruising became evident on Jaskier’s pale skin.

The bard was no mutant—like a witcher with Geralt’s healing powers. He would take some time to recover completely. 

The maidens moved down the bed to wash Jaskier’s feet and his legs. His cock, nestled in a thatch of dark hair, rested quietly against his thigh. They washed Jaskier’s secret places, known only to his lovers, the places Geralt sometimes imagined touching and tasting when they were on the hunt for monsters.

Geralt grunted to clear his throat.

The maidens dried Jaskier with plush towels and changed the bedding beneath him. It took all their efficient efforts to dress Jaskier in the soft tunic and trousers that Yennefer had provided for him. The bard would hardly approve of the warm grey colour, undoubtedly preferring something more flamboyant. But that hardly mattered to Geralt. Finally, Jaskier was clean and bundled beneath the warm blankets.

Yennefer’s handmaidens finished their work. The door closed after them with a soft thud. Relieved, when the maidens departed and left him alone with Jaskier, Geralt rose from his seat and went to the bedside. 

The colour had returned to Jaskier’s cheeks and he looked better than when Geralt had found him. At least the filth had been cleaned from his body. 

Geralt sat on the edge of the bed. He hoped Yennefer would return soon with whatever magical treatments she was preparing for Jaskier. He was tired from a day of travel and a night spent rescuing Jaskier from Lord Mathen’s men. Although he did not need as much sleep as a human, Geralt had reached his limit. He hadn’t slept well since the night he spent with Yennefer on the mountain, more than a fortnight ago.

The blankets and soft bed were too tempting for Geralt. He kicked off his boots and rested his head on the pillow next to Jaskier. It was only to be for a moment, just until Yennefer returned. He reached for Jaskier’s hand and found his wrist again. He pushed the soft fabric of his sleeve up so he could feel Jaskier’s pulse against his palm. His thumb stroked Jaskier soothingly, careful to avoid the chafes and scratches that the restraints left on his tender skin.

He hadn’t intended to fall asleep.

~


	2. Chapter Two

“What the absolute fuck?”

Geralt was roused awake. He instinctively reached for his sword, but it lay with his armour in a heap, halfway across the room.

“Geralt?” Jaskier rasped, his voice ragged with disuse.

“Jaskier?” Geralt assured him. “I’m right here.”

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Jaskier asked, waving his hands wildly, then shouting “Ow, ow!” when he realized the state of his fingers.

“Jaskier, you’re injured. You were beaten. It’s for the best that you don’t move around,” Geralt pleaded. And where the hell was Yennefer when he needed her? He held onto Jaskier’s arms to try to contain his agitation.

Jaskier raged on, “Where the fuck am I?”

“You’re here with me, in Novigrad,” Geralt said.

Jaskier’s eyes went wide and he gaped at Geralt. “Oh, no! Why are you here? The last I heard, your most earnest wish was to be as far away from me as possible. Well, wish granted. I’m getting the fuck out of here.”

“Jaskier, no!” Geralt demanded.

Jaskier grabbed at the covers and tried to get out of the bed. “Ow! Fuck! What the fucking hell?”

“Yennefer is going to help you. I found you. You were injured. I brought you to her.”

“You? You brought me to that- that- that- witch?” Jaskier shouted with fire in his eyes. “You know, I thought you might try to apologize, but bringing me to _her_? Well, well, well, that truly shows how much you care about me!”

“I do, Jaskier,” Geralt insisted. “I do care about you, you idiot.” He tried his best to shove Jaskier back under the covers without injuring him further, but it would have been easier to wrestle a kikimora. Finally, he resorted to the only tool he had. His eyes flared as he pinched his fingers together and cast the axii sign at Jaskier so he would relax.

A wisp of smoke emanated from Geralt’s hand. He hated to assert such control over the bard without his knowledge or permission, but it was the only thing he could do to keep him from behaving like a feral animal. 

Jaskier’s eyes glazed over. He sunk down into the bedding and whimpered, “Geralt…”

“I’m here,” Geralt said. He straightened out Jaskier’s tunic, which had become dishevelled in the struggle. Bits of Jaskier’s chest hair peeked from the loose neckline. Geralt tugged the blankets up so they reached Jaskier’s chin.

“Where were you? Geralt?” Jaskier asked lazily.

Geralt rested his palm on Jaskier’s shoulder, trying to calm him.

“I dreamed you were with me… don’t leave me….”

“Hmm,” Geralt muttered. He had no idea what the bard was prattling on about. He must have remembered part of his rescue, or the ride on Roach. He’d have to ask him about it later.

Jaskier muttered a few more incoherent words before his head slumped to the side, buried in the lavish pillows of Yennefer’s bed. He slept once more.

It was then, that Geralt noticed Yennefer standing in the doorway.

“Fuck,” Geralt said.

Yennefer crossed her arms and leant against the door frame.

“Axii makes humans babble incoherently sometimes,” Geralt explained.

“For the moment, I’ll try to ignore the fact that you have again exerted control over another by using some form of magic. Aren’t you worried that the bard might be embarrassed by his babbling? That is, if he survives?” Yennefer asked.

“You’ve been known to use magic to get what you want. And you needn’t listen to him,” Geralt said, lowering his head to sidestep giving away his thoughts which contained so many questions for the bard. “Besides, he didn’t make much sense.”

Jaskier was never one to be easily embarrassed anyway, Geralt recalled. The time he told a nobleman that Jaskier had been kicked in the balls by an ox as a child was met with a smile, Jaskier catching on quickly enough to understand that Geralt was only seeking to help Jaskier avoid harm. Geralt longed for those days and their easy camaraderie. 

“He made perfect sense,” Yennefer said. 

The mage pushed herself upright off the door frame and entered the room. It was only then that Geralt realized that she carried a satchel of supplies with her. 

She walked to Geralt and paused, raising her hand to play with his hair.

As uncomfortable as the gesture made Geralt, he didn’t dare complain, lest Yennefer refuse to help Jaskier. She tauntingly curled a strand of his hair around her finger. She was as beautiful as ever, but Geralt feared that she might be twice as dangerous since their falling out. He was unprepared for what she said next.

“He’s in love with you.”

“Hmm?” Geralt asked before he had time to process her statement.

Yennefer ducked her head to hide a demure smile. “When I touched his forehead, he inadvertently gave me more information, besides his body temperature.”

“You read his mind?”

“I’m a mage. Sometimes these things can’t be helped.”

At first, Geralt was angry on Jaskier’s behalf. The violation of Jaskier’s thoughts, relinquished for the scrutiny of a virtual stranger, who might seek to do him harm, was dangerous. The anguish it caused reminded Geralt of the training he endured in Kaer Morhen when his will was often not his own. He let the anger pass as Yennefer strode to the other side of the bed.

She removed a vial of amber liquid from her satchel. Setting the vial on the pillow, she climbed onto the bed and knelt beside Jaskier. 

Geralt disregarded Yennefer’s proclamation that Jaskier was in love with him. Although the notion was absurd, it made Geralt wonder what other information Yennefer had extracted from Jaskier. Maybe he could learn from it, but only if Yennefer would share what she had discovered.

Reaching forward with both hands, Yennefer cradled Jaskier’s head and turned it gently.

Geralt soothed Jaskier by stroking his forehead with his palm. He wished he had the powers of understanding over Jaskier that Yennefer had. He wanted to know why Jaskier dreamed about him. Maybe it involved Jaskier’s disappointment over Geralt’s harsh words, judging by how angry Jaskier was when he regained consciousness. More importantly, he needed to know if he had a chance to earn Jaskier’s friendship again. He wanted to know if Jaskier was in pain. Why these things concerned him, he hadn’t a clue. He was a witcher. He hadn’t a care for the trials and tribulations of mere men.

“What else did you learn from him?” Geralt asked. He fully considered the possibility that Yennefer wouldn’t tell him the truth.

“Many things,” Yennefer said, tipping Jaskier’s head back. She pulled the stopper from the vial and dripped the potion onto Jaskier’s mouth.

Geralt slid his thumb over Jaskier’s cracked lips, holding his mouth open to receive the treatment Yennefer had prepared for him. He only hoped that it wouldn’t kill him.

“You’ve never noticed?” Yennefer asked, replacing the stopper on the bottle.

“Hmmm?” Geralt grunted.

“The way he follows you around. The way his every song is about you.”

We were back to this again. “That’s coincidence,” Geralt said. “He’s simply a bard looking for tales to sing about. I can’t help it if he finds monster hunting so interesting.”

Geralt knew how most people reacted when confronted with a witcher. Witchers were hated and feared by people with more sense than Jaskier. But Yennefer’s suggestion that Jaskier loved him was ridiculous. She was still angry about the way he manipulated her into sharing his bed, and she obviously sought to use Jaskier’s deteriorated state to take some revenge.

“Well, it’s no coincidence that he got into this mess because he bedded Lord Mathen’s son,” Yennefer said. She reached into her satchel and removed a roll of unspun wool and a few pieces of thinly carved wood.

“Ethain,” Geralt recalled.

“What do you know of him?” Yennefer asked. She drew back Jaskier’s covers and freed his right hand. 

Jaskier didn’t make a sound. His fingers had been cleaned, but the bones had not been set. They looked painfully crushed.

“Tall. Sturdily built. Long blond hair. Handy with a blade,” Geralt said.

Yennefer raised an eyebrow. “Jaskier pursued the son of Lord Mathen because he reminded him of you, Geralt.”

“I’m much older,” Geralt said, sceptically.

“That’s not the point,” Yennefer said. “Give me your hand.”

Geralt did as Yennefer asked, holding Jaskier’s damaged fingers so Yennefer could treat them.

She slid a piece of wood beneath the four fingers of Jaskier’s right hand and waved her own hand over them. Geralt felt the bones of Jaskier’s fingers magically slot into place where they could knit together to mend.

Jaskier’s face looked peaceful. It seemed he hadn’t felt anything since Geralt manipulated him with axii.

“Jaskier sought the love that was available to him because the lover he truly desired did not return his affections,” Yennefer continued as she wrapped the wool around Jaskier’s hand to hold his mending bones in place.

“You’re mistaken if you think this is about me. No human, especially not an educated man like Jaskier, would seek affection from a witcher,” Geralt said.

This simply wasn’t possible, although there seemed to be no other explanation. Geralt’s chest drew tight as if Jaskier’s invisible hands were squeezing his heart. The crack in his veneer had split open when he discovered Jaskier injured. And now the emotions it protected threatened to spill out.

“He’s a bard,” Yennefer said. “He thrives on evoking feelings with his words. He brings laughter to people with his songs. He sometimes brings the sadness to the surface and makes tears fall when his audience recognizes themselves in his songs. Perhaps he thinks of an unfeeling witcher as a challenge?”

“Hmm,” Geralt mused, dismissing the notion. And then, because he knew Yennefer would appreciate it if he tried to use his words more, he added, “Thank you for telling me what you found. You didn’t need to. I think you’ve grown wiser with each day that has passed since we met.”

Yennefer bit back a laugh. “A lifetime of suffering has its rewards, I suppose,” she said.

Geralt’s eyes went to Jaskier as he lay motionless on the bed. Yennefer had saved Jaskier once before. Maybe what she told him about Jaskier was once true before Geralt fucked it all up with his careless words. It certainly wasn’t true now. Jaskier was furious with him.

Yennefer rose and went to Geralt’s side. “You need to move, so I can tend to the fingers on his other hand,” she said.

Geralt got to his feet and switched places with Yennefer. He knew Jaskier’s fingers needed special care if he was ever to play his lute again. He helped as Yennefer used the same magical techniques on Jaskier’s left hand that she had used on the right. 

Even with Yennefer’s magic, it would take a long time for Jaskier’s fingers to heal.

As the tiny bones slid into their proper alignment, Geralt hated to imagine Jaskier’s terror when someone intentionally broke each of his fingers. He pressed a palm to his chest, trying to quell the ache that arose when he considered Jaskier’s pain.

Yennefer carefully wrapped Jaskier’s hand as she finished.

“He’s going to sleep for a long time,” Yennefer said. “And you could use a bath.”

Geralt groaned. Not this again.

~

Geralt sank down into the heated water. His muscles ached from days of riding and, for this reason alone, he welcomed Yennefer’s invitation to bathe. Her lavish manor house featured a marble-tiled bathing room where he was provided with a large tub, clad in copper.

Yennefer dismissed her staff of young scantily-clad men after they filled the tub with buckets of water that the carried on their able shoulders. She showed no sign of leaving Geralt on his own. Fortunately, this time, she remained outside of the tub. But the experience was anything but a private one. She lurked in the dark corners of the room as if she waited to spring on Geralt like a monster.

“The next days will be critical for Jaskier,” Yennefer said, lighting another candle with a magical flash of her eyes.

“Hmm,” Geralt acknowledged.

“A fever may flare up. The wounds on his back were many.”

Geralt filled his hands with water and splashed it over his face. “The potion—” 

“It should help, but it will be up to Jaskier to fight off the worst of any infection.”

Geralt nodded. He inspected the stab wound he earned in the skirmish with Jaskier’s captors. The once bloody gash was now covered with fresh skin. The bath helped Geralt relax and Yennefer’s willingness to treat Jaskier helped to put his mind at ease.

Geralt reclined back and let the water soak his hair. For the first time all day, he believed that Jaskier would be strong enough to survive the beating and whatever physical consequences it brought. He simply had to be. The bard had been such an integral part of his own journey. It was difficult to imagine a life without him, despite the harsh words Geralt had for him on the mountain.

“I want to thank you again,” Geralt said, making an effort to rub fragrant soap through his long white hair. “For what you’ve done for him. It’s more than I have any right to ask for.”

“You can ask for whatever you’d like,” Yennefer said. “Nothing ever came from _not_ asking for what we want.”

Geralt knew an uncomfortable conversation was coming. Yennefer never did anything that wasn’t in her best interests. She expected something important in return for her help with Jaskier. He submerged his head and rinsed the soap from his hair.

Yennefer pulled a chair up to the tub and sat at the edge. She dipped her fingers into the scented water and flicked a splash of droplets at Geralt.

“I was thinking of what reward would please me most,” Yennefer began, leaning forward to touch his arm.

Geralt stifled a groan. This was going to be more painful than he imagined. He could not predict what Yennefer wanted from him, but the way she ran her finger over the ragged scar on his left shoulder made him guess that she wanted to bed him again.

He wouldn’t object. Yennefer was beautiful. After all, he had the same desires as most men. The mutations from his witcher training hadn’t damaged his libido as they had his fertility. But this new knowledge about Jaskier being in love with him put a wrinkle in his desires.

“Since I learned about your child of surprise, I’ve been intrigued,” Yennefer said.

Geralt set his jaw. He should have seen this coming.

“Surely you have wondered about her.”

“Or him,” Geralt said. Whenever he imagined the child, he thought of it as a boy. He supposed it seemed only fitting that Yennefer thought of the child as a female.

“It’s a girl, Geralt,” Yennefer said. “It doesn’t take a team of researchers from Oxenfurt to uncover that the child is Queen Calanthe’s granddaughter, the Princess Cirilla. Have you had your head buried in the sand for all these… what, how old would she be now?”

“I hadn’t given it much thought,” Geralt said. “Nine or ten, perhaps.”

“Wouldn’t you like to meet her? Wouldn’t you like to get to know her?”

Geralt didn’t need to think for more than a second. What was he supposed to do with a child? He couldn’t exactly take her on the Path with him. “It would be wrong for me to interfere. She has been cared for her whole life by the only family she has ever known,” he said. “I wouldn’t take her away from them.”

“You wouldn’t be taking her from her family permanently,” Yennefer said. “But what if she were to pay you a visit?”

It was unlikely that the child’s parents would allow a visit, barring some Continent-wide catastrophe. And Geralt had no intention of disrupting a child’s life by becoming involved after all this time. 

“Her parents wouldn’t approve,” he said grimly, as if his disposition would dissuade Yennefer from her motives.

“Her parents are dead, Geralt.”

Geralt turned his head so quickly that water splashed over the edge of the tub.

“Her parents were lost at sea, but she’s been raised by her grandmother,” Yennefer said.

“Apparently I haven’t kept up with the gossip of the Cintran court,” Geralt said.

“You could spend time together,” Yennefer continued. “You can’t say you’re not curious about her. I would be happy to host a meeting here. You’ve got to admit, my accommodations are lovely. What little princess wouldn’t want to spend time here?”

“Her grandmother would never allow it.”

“You could be persuasive. You have the Law of Surprise on your side.”

“Fuck.”

Geralt could see where Yennefer was headed. If she couldn’t have a child of her own, she was determined to forge a relationship with his child of surprise. He sunk down deeper into the bath water and let the heat soothe his aching back. He could have predicted that Yennefer would ask this of him. She had chided him for neglecting his child of surprise when they had their argument on the mountain. It was the worst kind of irony—that Geralt had a child who he hadn’t attempted to meet or to learn anything about, when Yennefer craved a child of her own.

Would he even recognize the child if he saw her? It was by chance that he claimed the Law of Surprise that put the child in his care, that night long ago when he served as Jaskier’s unwilling bodyguard. Aside from that repayment for saving Duny’s life, he had no connection to his and Pavetta’s offspring, not biological, or by being a presence in her life. In fact, Yennefer had just as much connection to the child as Geralt did.

“After what I’ve done for your bard,” Yennefer said. “You promised me whatever I desired. You know I desire a child more than anything. My request shouldn’t come as a shock to you.”

“Hmm,” Geralt murmured. It truly didn’t.

Yennefer leant over and folded her arms on the rim of the tub. 

“When I was a child, I was unloved and uncared for. All I ever wanted was to be important to someone—you know that, Geralt. You’ve denied me this once already when you manipulated me with your wish for the djinn. I won’t let that fakery happen again,” Yennefer said, pillowing her cheek on her folded arms. “Is it so wrong of me to want to show a child the love I never had? If I can’t have a child from the flesh of my own body, at least grant me some satisfaction by letting me spend time with your daughter. All I’m asking for is to meet the girl, your child by law. I promise you no harm will come to her. Surely you can give me this.”

Geralt held his breath and sunk beneath the surface of the water. Yennefer had a point. He had promised her whatever she asked. Was Jaskier’s health worth the price of allowing Yennefer to meet the girl? 

Geralt let the water fill his ears. The heat coaxed the knots out of his muscles. The soothing motion of the water washed over his skin like the touch of a lover. Maybe someday, Geralt would know what it was to feel love. Real love… not the kind that you got by spending coin at the brothel and not the kind that you got by wishing it from a djinn. To know the kind of love that transcends all boundaries of order and courtly decorum, the kind of love that deep down he knew Yennefer would have for a child of her own. He remembered what Yennefer told him after she read Jaskier’s thoughts. Geralt needed to know more. He would regret it until his last hunt if he didn’t try to find out if what Yennefer said about Jaskier being in love with him was true. An introduction between Yennefer and the child he never met…

Yes, the decision was not too difficult. Jaskier, and the promise he may hold for Geralt, was worth this request, and more.

Geralt grasped the edge of the tub and surged upwards, heaving in a breath of air.

“Yes, I’ll find her and bring her to meet you,” Geralt said through the rivulets of water that ran from his hair and into his eyes.

Yennefer looked surprised. Her mouth opened with a gasp before she got control over her reaction and broke into a smile.

“But I want to make sure Jaskier recovers first,” Geralt said.

“That is acceptable,” Yennefer said, her violet eyes alight with happiness. “I will do everything I can. We’ll watch him closely in the days ahead.”

“Hmm,” Geralt grunted. He hoped he wouldn’t regret this.

Yennefer reached for a towel that had been stacked on a shelf beside the tub. She spread her arms and the towel wide before tossing it over Geralt’s head.

“Thank you so much, Geralt,” Yennefer said. “I can’t wait to meet her.”

Relieved that his decision had been made, Geralt towelled off his hair.

“I’d like to check on Jaskier when I’m finished here,” Geralt said. “I don’t think I should leave him alone.”

“The potion will help him sleep deeply,” Yennefer said. “But I can understand why you want to go back to check on your bard.”

“Hmm,” Geralt acknowledged.

Yennefer rose to leave. “Now that you’re scrubbed clean, I’ll take your clothing to be washed. I’ll send in one of my servants with something fresh for you to wear… something that will complement your best features. You wouldn’t want to disappoint Jaskier by looking like a sad silk trader when he awakens.”

“I have much to discuss with him when he wakes,” Geralt said. His attire was the least of his concerns.

~

Geralt opened the door slowly when he went to check on Jaskier. He was grateful that the handmaidens Yennefer had assigned to care for the bard seemed intent to leave the two of them alone. He paused and waited while they exited the room. Despite Yennefer’s assurances that the potion she administered would make Jaskier sleep like a babe, Geralt slipped into the room quietly so he wouldn’t disturb him. He tiptoed across the marble floor, across the handwoven rug, to Jaskier’s bedside.

The trickle of water as it peacefully ran over the smooth rocks of the interior waterfall was the only sound.

Thankfully, Jaskier remained asleep. The prolonged rest could only help him heal.

If Geralt didn’t know better, because of his heightened senses, he may have thought Jaskier was dead. He watched Jaskier’s chest rise and fall only fractionally. The soft blankets undulated like gentle waves on a calm lake.

Yennefer deserved a wealth of gratitude for the help she was giving Jaskier at Geralt’s request. Her handmaidens had provided Geralt with comfortable clothing, in lieu of his travel-worn leather armour that he wore when he arrived through the portal with Yennefer. Trousers of the softest calfskin hugged his thighs. A black tunic fit loosely around his shoulders before narrowing to tuck into his wide waistband. His witcher medallion dangled safely from his neck and peeked out from the tunic’s slashed neckline. He had tied his hair back using a strip of leather. He knew Jaskier favoured it that way because the bard had finger-combed the tangles out of Geralt’s hair and styled it that way after more than one bath that they shared together in their years of travel. A lightweight cloak, umber and embossed in a rich brocade, was draped over Geralt’s shoulders, but it was much too warm in Jaskier’s room to wear it. He hung it neatly over the back of the plush chair that flanked Jaskier’s bedside.

Geralt had no intention of sitting in the chair. Instead, he tugged off his new boots, also provided by Yennefer. The payment he promised her should have weighed heavily on him, but it seemed unimportant when measured against Jaskier’s potential transition from his beaten and abused state to his healthy self again.

Geralt knelt on the bed, careful to make only a minimum of disruption to the blankets and furs so he wouldn’t wake Jaskier. He tucked a pillow under his shoulder and propped his head on his hand to get a better look at the bard.

Some colour had returned to Jaskier’s cheeks, although he needed a shave. A small quirk of a smile tugged at Geralt’s lips. Jaskier had always been meticulously groomed, even when they were travelling in the most wretched wild lands or spending a night in a dilapidated inn with no amenities. Jaskier always managed to look handsome. It was no wonder that he was so popular with the ladies… and the gentlemen of the Continent, as well. 

Jaskier let out a little huff while he slept. It was almost as if he sensed Geralt was thinking about him with admiration.

Geralt reached out and stroked Jaskier’s cheek gently with his knuckles. He hoped that Yennefer’s magic could save him again, as it had done once before. Then, maybe he could find out more about why she believed Jaskier was in love with him. No one could love a witcher, least of all a handsome bard who could have his choice of lovers from any of the beautiful countesses or lords of the land.

Jaskier…. Yennefer… Geralt deserved the friendship of neither of them.

A log crackled in the fireplace.

Geralt looked up, but Jaskier didn’t move. Geralt slowly settled back into the warm comfort of the blankets beside Jaskier.

Geralt let his eyes rove over Jaskier’s skin. The bruises on Jaskier’s throat seemed lighter than they were before Geralt bathed. Perhaps the handmaidens used some magical technique to alleviate Jaskier’s suffering. Geralt ran a finger down Jaskier’s pale neck. He stopped when he felt Jaskier’s pulse fluttering beneath his fingertips. He wasn’t sure whether it was his imagination that it seemed stronger, making him believe that Yennefer’s healing potion was working. He wished Jaskier had the ability to heal like a witcher did. He’d be right in no time at all.

Geralt rested his palm on Jaskier’s chest and sent soft waves of healing energy to the bard. For as cruelly as Geralt had treated him, he never wished for Jaskier to be hurt so badly. 

“Jaskier, I don’t know if you can hear me. Yennefer is trying to make you well again. We both are,” he assured the sleeping Jaskier. 

A candle flickered with the transference of energy, but Jaskier remained silent, his chest warm beneath Geralt’s palm. 

Geralt closed his eyes in meditation, searching for the right words to say before speaking again. He whispered words that were heartfelt, if not rehearsed in Geralt’s mind from the moment he hoisted the bard onto Roach’s back.

“I’m sorry for the things I said to you when we were on the mountain,” he said, his palm feeling for the soft thump of Jaskier’s heartbeat beneath his tunic. “I’m sorry I didn’t travel quickly enough to find you and prevent you from being hurt. I’m sorry for so many things.”

Geralt wished that Jaskier could hear him. He had utterly disappointed himself a few times in his life, from his failure to convince Renfri to leave Blaviken, to how he manipulated Yennefer with his wish to the djinn. He did not want Jaskier’s name to be added to the short list of people who he loved but could not save from themselves. 

_Love_ … the word summoned by his own mind shook Geralt. It wasn’t supposed to feel this way. It wasn’t supposed to be felt by a witcher at all. But the hollow void of it with its ragged edges burned him at his core.

“You’ve always been so generous to me. You’ve been such a… _friend_. And, graceless beast that I am, I said some cruel things to you,” Geralt said tenderly. “If anything, I’ve learned the value of your companionship in the weeks since we were last together. I miss you. I know I hurt you deeply, and for that, I’m sorry.”

He stretched upward and pressed a kiss to Jaskier’s forehead, cool from the potion that Yennefer had given him to stave off his fever. Settling back atop the coverings, Geralt would stay here with Jaskier until he awoke, and then he’d repeat his apology again, and as often as necessary.

~

With his cheek resting on Jaskier’s shoulder, Geralt woke from a restful sleep some hours later. He stretched his legs and enjoyed the warmth of the room and the warmth of Jaskier asleep in his arms. He was making a habit of falling asleep when he intended to watch over Jaskier for his well-being. It was a habit he intended to continue. He ran through his apology again in his mind and felt better, having said what he needed before he fell asleep, even if Jaskier didn’t quite hear him. His apology helped make the burdensome weight of guilt start to rise from Geralt’s chest. He felt lighter, more satisfied with his agreement about bringing his child of surprise to visit Yennefer.

Yennefer’s assertion about Jaskier loving him, no matter how improbable it seemed, needled at his thoughts. It couldn’t be true. Witchers served a purpose in this life. They weren’t meant to be loved. They were a functional piece of machinery that helped the Continent run without too many lives lost. They functioned, but that was all. As pleasing as it would be to muse upon, Jaskier could never love him as Yennefer had said.

Besides, Geralt wasn’t blind to all human traits. He would have noticed Jaskier’s desire. They had travelled together, off and on, for years. Surely he would have realized that the bard wanted him in the way of a lover. 

Geralt inhaled sharply when he remembered the casual winks Jaskier threw his way, the nights huddled together beneath the furs, the baths where more skin than necessary was bared and touched with longing fingers.

“Hmm,” Geralt hummed quizzically.

Why hadn’t Jaskier _said_ something? He was forthcoming about every other stray thought that crossed his mind.

 _“Fucking humans,”_ Geralt whispered to himself.

Jaskier’s eyes opened.

Geralt had no way of knowing how much time had passed while they slept. The fireplace kept the room warm with a seemingly unlimited supply of fuel. The waterfall trickled its peaceful melody as if it were part of one of the many forested campsites that he and Jaskier had shared over the years. Yennefer was nowhere in sight.

Jaskier blinked, but he did not raise his head. His clean hair had dried into unruly waves that spread out on the soft pillow. His eyes scanned Geralt’s face.

Geralt couldn’t help but smile in wonder when he saw the sparkling blue peering back at him from Jaskier’s eyes. He hadn’t ever noticed how pretty they were before, but at this close range, they warmed him from the inside. Something unknown stirred inside him. It felt like some kind of magic decreed by a Law of Surprise or some other once-in-a-lifetime event. His heart had inadvertently taken possession of some wonderful unknown thing, as proclaimed by Yennefer’s discovery, and he was happier for it. 

“You’re awake,” Geralt whispered, unwilling to let Jaskier fly into a tirade as he had done previously upon awakening.

Jaskier swallowed with difficulty and licked his ragged lips. “Your powers of observation, witcher, are second to none,” he replied.

Geralt waited, but he did not release his hold on Jaskier, his limbs warm beneath the covers. 

Jaskier closed his eyes, then opened them, looking questioningly at Geralt.

When Geralt realized Jaskier was not going to rail at him as he had previously done upon awakening, he said, “I’m waiting for you to shout at me again. You can, if you want to.”

Jaskier looked at him for a moment and Geralt hoped he was forgiven.

“Don’t assume you’ve been granted reprieve. Oh no-no-no, you deserve to be shouted at,” Jaskier said, his voice rough.

“Hmm,” Geralt agreed, acknowledging Jaskier’s truth.

Jaskier didn’t shout. Instead, he scanned the room with curiosity. “Melitele preserve me, I can’t believe you brought me here, of all places,” he said with a roll of his eyes.

“It was the only way to save you, to keep you alive,” Geralt said. He held Jaskier and enjoyed the feel of him beneath the blankets. His rib cage expanded and collapsed with the breath of life as he lay in Geralt’s arms and Geralt knew that he had done the right thing by bringing him to Yennefer.

“Still alive,” Jaskier said, taking a moment to free a hand and wave his fingers in the space between Geralt and himself. “A bit worse for wear, however.”

Geralt closed his eyes. He was reminded that Jaskier might never play the lute again, and that was what spurred him to repeat his apology—this time with a conscious Jaskier.

“Before you say another word, I want to tell you that I’m sorry,” Geralt said. “I’m sorry for what happened on the mountain… Borch… Yennefer… all of it. I took my anger out on you. You didn’t deserve it. I was wrong.”

Jaskier’s splinted fingers touched Geralt’s lips. “You don’t need to—”

“I do need to,” Geralt said, gently taking Jaskier’s hand away and returning it to his chest. “This never would have happened to you if I hadn’t blamed you for my misfortunes… if I had been quicker when I realized how wrong I was… if I had gone after you sooner….”

“Well, that’s true,” Jaskier said, with a small amount of the usual mischief in his eyes.

“I’m trying to apologize here.”

“You’re doing a good job, surprisingly,” Jaskier said with a wave of his hand. “Keep going.”

Geralt sighed, glad that Jaskier was returning to his normal self.

“I searched for you as soon as I realized my mistake. What were you thinking?” Geralt asked, his voice low. He wanted to hear the whole of what had happened to Jaskier. Remembering the scent of mud, blood, and semen, he steeled himself and prepared to listen to whatever Jaskier would share with him. 

Jaskier said nothing.

Geralt prompted him. “I spoke to a barmaid in Temeria, who told me that you performed at the tavern there before leaving for Cidaris.”

“Ahh…” Jaskier murmured thoughtfully. His eyes flicked to his splinted fingers. “I was following the same advice I had given to you.”

Geralt sadly watched Jaskier’s crippled fingers. He wanted nothing more than to comfort Jaskier and to make all his pain disappear. “What advice was that?” Geralt asked, trying to remember what Jaskier had said, trying to say something that a human would find comforting.

“The advice about working out what pleases me,” Jaskier said sleepily.

With his eyes, Geralt followed the path that Jaskier’s bound and splinted fingers took as they settled on his chest. He slipped his hand under Jaskier’s palm so he could support the damaged fingers.

“And did you work it out? Did you find what pleased you?”

Jaskier tensed. “As best I could. But given that I couldn’t have what truly would please me, I sought out the next best thing.”

So, perhaps what Yennefer had suggested was true. Geralt had no choice but to believe her now, despite his scepticism about Jaskier’s intentions. “And that’s why you sought Lord Mathen’s son?”

Jaskier tried to shrug, but the confines of the bedding and his injuries restricted his movement.

Geralt watched as Jaskier closed his eyes, giving up on communicating about the subject that begged to be discussed, choosing instead to embrace the sleep encouraged by Yennefer’s potion.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, exasperated in a way that only Jaskier could incite in him.

The touch of Jaskier’s bandaged fingers in his palm made Geralt ache in sympathy with the bard. Geralt had few regrets in life as a witcher. But all the things he wished Jaskier and he had done together, but hadn’t, wore heavily on him now. If only they had more time. But now, it was too late.

“When you didn’t come after me, I made my way down the mountain alone,” Jaskier said.

His voice startled Geralt, who thought the potion had taken effect again, making Jaskier drift off to sleep. Instead, he listened as Jaskier shared his story.

“I went toward Temeria, thinking I could visit the coast without you. Thinking that you would remember that I had suggested it and you might follow me there,” Jaskier said shakily.

Geralt reached up to brush a stray lock of dark hair from Jaskier’s forehead.

“I did remember. I searched for you there. The barmaid I met,” Geralt said. “She told me you were… sad.”

Geralt felt Jaskier’s legs shift beneath the blankets. What he wouldn’t give to be curled up with Jaskier in the forest. Their fire warming them while they rested after a day of storytelling and travel. He had taken Jaskier for granted for so long and now it seemed like they could never get back to the way things were before he berated him on the mountain.

“When I got to Cidaris, my first thought was to find Valdo Marx,” Jaskier said, forcing a smile. “I could take out my frustrations on him and release some of my anger.”

“Hmm,” Geralt murmured. He knew Valdo Marx was a rival in Jaskier’s barding circle. He had long suspected that Valdo Marx was also Jaskier’s former lover. Something about the way Jaskier held him in contempt at every opportunity. Jaskier wasn’t one to forgive and forget, unless the matter concerned Geralt. It was not surprising that he sought him out for a chance to repair his damaged ego. He could battle Valdo Marx or he could woo him, either way would count as a victory for Jaskier. “And you didn’t find him?”

“I went to the tavern where he usually performs, but he wasn’t there,” Jaskier said. “The barkeep allowed me to play. Thankfully, I gave a better performance than I did in Temeria. It caught Ethain’s attention. I didn’t know he was the son of a lord at the time.”

Geralt catalogued what he knew of Ethain. Yennefer seemed to think that Ethain was a stand-in for Geralt in Jaskier’s quest for a bedmate to soothe his broken heart. From what Jaskier had divulged, it could be true, at least the part about Jaskier seeking a fuck to alleviate his sorrows.

But Jaskier deserved so much more than a roll in the hay with a handsome stranger. Geralt’s heart ached from the thought.

“Anyone would be lucky to have your affections,” Geralt said. He wanted to say that anyone, besides _him_ would be worthy of the bard’s attention. But he failed. Instead, he gently stroked Jaskier’s injured fingers, the white fluff of the wool soft beneath his thumb. He hoped that the touch would convey the warmth he felt for Jaskier, even if he knew Jaskier’s affections would not be returned to him, a killer of monsters, a witcher.

Jaskier turned his head to look away.

“And he was the one who hurt you?” Geralt continued, fearful that he had gone a step too far in his assumptions. And there was the matter that he couldn’t bear the thought of someone who bore his likeness hurting Jaskier.

“Oh, no,” Jaskier exclaimed, tearing his hand out of Geralt’s grasp. “He wouldn’t. He didn’t. Everything was consensual with him.”

“Hmm,” Geralt murmured in judgement. He hated the thought of some random man bedding Jaskier nearly as much as he hated the thought of someone causing Jaskier harm. It was unsettling. His expression clearly showed that he wished Jaskier hadn’t fallen into the first bed he found after leaving the mountain. And Jaskier could read the disdain in Geralt’s grunt.

“I mean, what the fuck am I supposed to do Geralt?” Jaskier said, his voice quavering. “I’m a poet. I’m a lover… I’m a man. When you rebuffed me for the last time on the mountain, I thought you wanted nothing to do with me anymore. I needed to face the truth that you wanted me out of your life.”

Jaskier pushed an elbow against Geralt and got enough leverage to turn away from him.

“Fuck,” Geralt whispered into the mess of Jaskier’s hair. He wrapped an arm around Jaskier’s middle and held him, as if it could ever make up for what Jaskier suffered because of his words.

He didn’t know what it felt like to be human, but he knew a lot about humans and what things would make them angry, what things would make them cry. He could smell the tears in Jaskier’s eyes before they fell.

“It was Lord Mathen’s men,” Jaskier muttered. “They caught Ethain and I together and they tore me away, beat me, abused me….”

The tears that welled in Jaskier’s eyes made Geralt feel a thousand times worse. He lay with Jaskier cradled in his arms. Feeling Jaskier’s shoulders shaking with sobs, Geralt did his best to comfort him. He let his fingers rove over Jaskier’s chest, soothing him with only the gentlest of touches. 

Jaskier turned his head and blinked open his reddened eyes. He was trying for a smile but there was no need for him to work so hard. “I remembered that you had always come to the defence of dragons—and even elves, but you only had the harshest words for me,” Jaskier said. His voice was angry, his eyes full of tears, but his words meant neither anger nor sorrow.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, quietly, remembering everything Yennefer had told him. He cradled Jaskier’s chin in one broad hand, careful of the bruises that bloomed on his cheeks. “I’m so sorry.”

Jaskier’s feet shifted beneath the blankets. His lips moved, his voice a whisper, “Could you just hold me, please?”

“Of course,” Geralt said. He knew that whether he deserved it or not, he had been forgiven.

~


	3. Chapter Three

“There’s been talk of drowners terrorizing a village on the outskirts of Novigrad,” Yennefer said over a breakfast of boiled eggs and toast smeared with butter.

“Hmm,” Geralt replied.

“Goats have been disappearing from the lakeside all summer, apparently. Nash Walenty is worried he won’t have enough milk to make cheese to last the winter.”

“Get to the point,” Geralt said.

“News travels fast,” Yennefer said, resolutely. “It’s no secret that I’m hosting a witcher who could rid the town of drowners and earn some coin for his efforts.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, although he knew Yennefer needed no reminder. 

During the past week, Yennefer plied Jaskier with potions to heal his broken body. Lucid moments were few. When Jaskier was awake, Geralt tended to him. He took the place of Yennefer’s handmaidens whenever he could. Many nights, he simply lay with Jaskier until he fell asleep again.

“I’m capable of watching over him,” Yennefer said.

Geralt had no intention of insulting Yennefer by indicating that Jaskier was in less than capable hands with her at his bedside.

Geralt wordlessly grunted.

“Is that a yes or a no?” Yennefer asked.

“I’ll ask him what he thinks of the idea,” Geralt said. “But if he so much as hints that he’d be uncomfortable with me gone, I’m staying.”

Yennefer drank from her goblet and levelled her gaze at Geralt. “For a man who owes me a favour in return for my healing skills, you have fewer options than you might think.”

Geralt didn’t like this game at all. “Drowners are no problem for me,” he said sternly, “but Jaskier will make the decision.”

~

“You’re still awake,” Geralt greeted, lowering himself onto Jaskier’s bed so he could sit beside him. He brought a plate of buttered toast to offer, in case Jaskier was hungry.

“You just missed the ladies,” Jaskier said with a wave of a wrapped and splinted hand.

“I saw them leaving,” Geralt said. Yennefer’s helpers had been tending to Jaskier several times each day. A fire had been lit in the hearth and Jaskier’s skin glowed, fresh from a recent bathing. “I know they’re taking good care of you.”

Jaskier shifted to get more comfortable, grimacing as he did so. 

Geralt suspected that the broken ribs made Jaskier’s every movement painful. He had suffered broken ribs many times in his monster hunts, and he remembered how painful they were to endure. Geralt healed quickly, but Jaskier lacked the healing powers of a witcher and so he suffered worse from the pain than Geralt ever had.

“Let me help you,” Geralt said, adjusting the pillow behind Jaskier’s head.

Geralt was new to playing nursemaid and it showed. No matter how he tried to help, he always felt inadequate. Still, he tried. He was committed to doing anything he could to alleviate Jaskier’s pain. It wasn’t simply the guilt that made Geralt want to help care for Jaskier in these days he had spent at Yennefer’s. Now that Jaskier allowed him to apologize for the way he treated him on the mountain, Geralt worked to restore their friendship.

“Did you eat breakfast?” Geralt asked. “I brought you some toast.”

“It’s humiliating to be spoon fed by Yennefer’s lackeys, I’ll have you know,” Jaskier said.

Geralt doubted it was a terrible experience for Jaskier. He always had eyes for beautiful maidens. Geralt couldn’t imagine Jaskier being too upset by being waited on, literally hand and foot, by them.

“I thought you went in for that sort of thing,” Geralt said, picking at the coverlet that was draped over Jaskier. “Almost a royal treatment. Didn’t you once tell me that you’re a viscount?”

“Pfft,” Jaskier dismissed Geralt’s notions. “It doesn’t matter to them. They treat me like a baby.”

Whether Jaskier realized it or not, he needed to be treated like a fragile human. He was near death when Geralt brought him to Yennefer. Bruised, beaten, and suffering all manner of physical torture, to say nothing of the damage to his spirit. Jaskier deserved to be treated with delicate care and kindness.

“They’re doing the best they can to help you,” Geralt said. 

“I took a few bites of the porridge they offered me. It seemed to appease them,” Jaskier said. “Where’s that toast?”

“Hmm,” Geralt grunted. Whoever said the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach had it right. Geralt shifted on the bed and reached for the plate of toast. The butter had fully melted into the crispy bread. He took a slice between his fingers and offered it to Jaskier.

“See what I mean? I’m like a helpless child,” Jaskier noted with a raised eyebrow before he took a bite.

Jaskier had a point. Geralt would find the inability to feed himself as frustrating as Jaskier did. He held the toast within the grasp of Jaskier’s teeth, allowing the bard to bite off and chew as much as he wanted. Geralt found himself mesmerized as Jaskier’s pink tongue darted out to lick the crumbs from his fingers.

“Do I have any more ale left?” Jaskier asked, shaking Geralt from his concentration.

“Of course,” Geralt said, wiping his fingers on a napkin before fetching Jaskier’s ale cup for him.

He held the cup steady while Jaskier’s bandaged hand clumsily guided the cup to his mouth. When Jaskier was satisfied, Geralt returned the cup to the small table at his bedside.

“How are your hands this morning?” Geralt asked. “It looks like you’re able to move them around a bit better.”

“They ache,” Jaskier said dramatically, without giving it too much thought.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt said, observing the splints and bandages that held his fingers straight. 

“I wish they weren’t so bound up like this,” Jaskier said. “I know it’s for the best, but it’s maddening to be unable to touch my own fingers with the fingers of my other hand. Do you know what I mean?”

Geralt nodded his head. He didn’t quite understand what Jaskier was getting at. Any time he had been injured in the past, he simply dealt with the inconvenience until he had healed. Of course, he healed quickly, but the bandages and stitches that he endured were never particularly bothersome.

“My fingers itch,” Jaskier complained. “And they’re stiff. I doubt I’ll ever be able to move them again.”

Geralt noted the resignation in Jaskier’s eyes. He wished there were something he could do to alleviate his distress.

“Give me your hand,” Geralt said.

Without showing signs of too much discomfort, Jaskier lifted an arm so Geralt could take one of his wrapped hands in both of his.

“Yennefer probably won’t approve of this, but I know something that might help,” Geralt said.

“Well, get on with it before she barges in here,” Jaskier said. “I know you rely on her to heal me, but I still don’t trust her. Oh… oh….”

“How does this feel?” Geralt asked. He had unwound the strips of bandages that held Jaskier’s fingers in place. Exposed to the air, the fingers looked straight, but a bit like wilted carrots. With feather-light strokes, Geralt traced each finger in its turn, letting the warmth of his touch seep into Jaskier’s skin.

Jaskier closed his eyes and let his head drop onto his pillows.

“Oh, Geralt,” Jaskier moaned. “That feels wondrous.”

Geralt could not contain his smile. It seemed like he could finally do something to alleviate the bard’s pain. He did his best to avoid jostling a finger out of place. He simply supported Jaskier’s fingers in one hand while he gently stroked each digit.

Jaskier shivered when Geralt traced the straight line of the bones past each knuckle to Jaskier’s fingertips. 

“They look good,” Geralt said. “You’ll be able to use them in no time.”

“You know… I’m still a bit angry that you left me on the mountain,” Jaskier gasped. “But if you can do this whenever I command, I think I could let bygones be bygones.”

Geralt smiled. The closed eyes and satisfied expression on Jaskier’s face was all that Geralt needed for him to continue stroking Jaskier’s fingers as he wished. Root to tip, root to tip, with the lightest of touches. It was a comfort that Geralt found easy to give.

“Your other hand,” Geralt asked. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“Yes, please,” Jaskier said blinking his blue eyes open and placing his other hand in Geralt’s so he could provide it with the same attention. 

Geralt sighed and unwrapped the bandages while Jaskier looked on. He slowly caressed the wrinkled skin of Jaskier’s broken fingers while he supported his hand.

“The insane witch will kill us for this,” Jaskier said. “It feels too good for her to approve of it.”

“Watch your tongue,” Geralt said with a smile. “She’s done her best to heal you.”

“True,” Jaskier said reluctantly.

“Don’t fret. I won’t let her interfere with whatever small scrap of pleasure you might get from this,” Geralt said.

It was such a simple thing. To gently stroke Jaskier’s damaged fingers while he recovered. A monster hunt would have been more exciting, but the satisfaction that came from giving Jaskier some relief from his pain was a better reward than any coin. 

Jaskier closed his eyes again as Geralt tended to his other hand. His dark lashes splayed over his cheeks, no longer badly marred by the bruising that coloured them when Geralt first brought him to Yennefer.

“You like to watch me,” Jaskier said without opening his eyes.

“Hmm,” Geralt grunted. And then he boldly admitted, “I do.”

“What are you thinking?” Jaskier asked, opening his eyes.

Geralt stumbled over his words, but he figured it could do no harm to confess his thoughts. Not when Jaskier had always willingly shared so much of himself with Geralt.

“I was thinking that the bruises on your face are healing well,” Geralt said.

“I must have looked terrible when I first arrived here,” Jaskier said.

“It was dark when we arrived,” Geralt said perfunctorily. 

The guilt still peeked out from the recesses of Geralt’s memory from that night. It was difficult to think about what abuse Jaskier had suffered before he found him. The stench of blood, mud, and semen was not something Geralt could easily forget. It would be impossible for Geralt to engage in a conversation about the experience with Jaskier. Geralt was terrible with words. The nature of Jaskier’s injuries put a discussion about them even more out of reach, but he supposed the day would soon come. He’d try to be ready for it, although he had no idea how to prepare to discuss such an uncomfortable topic. 

Jaskier manoeuvred his hand so he drew Geralt’s fingers to his face. He raised his eyes to meet Geralt’s.

With his battle-hardened knuckles, Geralt stroked the soft skin of Jaskier’s cheek. The bruising had changed from dark purple to greenish yellow—and now to a lighter shade of pink, in the days that had passed. Geralt was relieved that there didn’t seem to be any permanent scarring to Jaskier’s face.

“I thought about you… I’m glad you came… on that night.... Thank you for helping me,” Jaskier said.

To Geralt, it was unthinkable that he would do anything _but_ help Jaskier in his recovery. He slid his thumb across Jaskier’s cheek and let it rest by his ear.

“I’ll do whatever I can,” Geralt said feebly.

More than anything, Geralt wanted to kiss him. But it wasn’t the time to test Yennefer’s affirmation that Jaskier loved him, nor was it time to find out whether a monster like him could be worthy of Jaskier’s kiss. Geralt feared the answer he’d receive.

Geralt hated that Yennefer had asked him to take care of the drowners. He belonged here with Jaskier and he wanted to stay by his side so he could help him. He needed to discuss the possibility of leaving Jaskier for a few days. Perhaps now was as good a time as any. If anything, it would take the possibility of discussing Jaskier’s injuries off the table.

“I need to ask you something,” Geralt said.

Jaskier’s eyes brightened and he rested his unbound hand on his chest. It was almost as if his hand weighed as much as a boulder that Jaskier found difficult to support.

“Yennefer told me that some of the townsfolk know that I’m here.”

“Is there trouble?” Jaskier asked.

“No, not with my presence,” Geralt assured him. “Quite the opposite, in fact.”

“What is it?” Jaskier asked curiously.

“There’s been a problem with drowners inhabiting one of the lakes. They’ve killed some livestock and pose a threat to the villagers. They’d like me to take care of them,” Geralt said.

Jaskier looked worried.

Geralt gently tapped Jaskier’s forehead with a finger. “I told Yennefer that I wouldn’t do it, if you wanted me to stay here with you.”

Jaskier sighed softly.

“If you need me to stay here, I will,” Geralt said.

“No,” Jaskier said resolutely. His lips drew into a thin line.

“You’re sure?”

“No, you need to help the villagers. It’s what you do… a friend of humanity and all that,” Jaskier said with a nod. “I don’t want you to stop your witchery business on my account.”

“I won’t be gone long,” Geralt said. “A few days at most.” 

So, it was settled, but more importantly, Jaskier’s reaction pleased Geralt. The encouragement he gave him to accept the contract indicated that Jaskier was on his way to healing- not only on the outside, but within his mind as well. It was a good sign, on par with the fading bruises on Jaskier’s cheek.

“When will you leave?” Jaskier asked. He unthinkingly reached for Geralt’s hand.

“Careful,” Geralt said, grasping the unbandaged fingers before they could be damaged by so much unsupported movement. “I think I’ll try to contact the town’s alderman tomorrow morning. Another night to locate the drowners, and another day for good measure. I should be able to dispatch the drowners without too much trouble.”

“Drowners never stand a chance against you,” Jaskier said with a sparkle in his eye.

Normally, Geralt would have responded with a grunt that meant, _of course they are no match for me,_ but instead Geralt tilted his head in acknowledgement. The compliment warmed Geralt to his core.

“I could go with you, if you think you need me as silent back-up,” Jaskier said quickly.

Geralt laughed and shook his head. “I appreciate the offer, but I think it’s for the best that you stay here to continue your recovery.”

“You’re probably right,” Jaskier said, examining his fingers.

Geralt registered Jaskier’s disappointment that he wouldn’t be able to accompany him this time. It would be months before Jaskier would be able to tag along. For one thing, he was still quite fragile. He could barely walk with the help of Yennefer’s servants. He’d have a difficult time following Geralt on foot, and just as difficult a time if Geralt let him ride Roach. It was a pity because Jaskier did so love the hunts for monsters and the tales he could craft from the many daunting experiences.

“I don’t think I’ve ever told you this before,” Geralt said. “But you’ve always been quite brave for following me on my hunts.”

It felt good for Geralt to unburden himself by sharing one of the things he admired most about Jaskier. It was another small way that Geralt could express how much he cared for the bard, without expecting anything in return.

Jaskier looked down, a faint blush colouring his cheeks. “But I’m not brave at all,” he said, resting both free hands on his own chest. “I just pretend to be brave, so I can accompany you. It lessens the chance that you’ll send me away.”

Geralt closed his eyes as the words gripped his heart. He needed to say something, anything to acknowledge Jaskier’s affection.

“You don’t need to pretend,” Geralt said, opening his eyes. He lay one large hand over both of Jaskier’s mangled hands. “I know what you’re capable of, and I know your fears.”

“Witcher senses, right?” Jaskier asked with a grin.

Geralt sighed. “Jaskier, you need never pretend to be something, anything other than yourself. Not for me.”

Jaskier blinked owlishly at Geralt. It was as if he hadn’t considered that he could simply be himself where Geralt was concerned.

Geralt nodded and said, “Now, let’s get these hands bandaged up again before Yennefer has both of our heads.”

~

The drowners would have been less problematic, if not for Jaskier. 

Geralt met with the alderman who described the lake where the drowners were suspected to dwell. The lake, and the waterways that emptied into it, seemed to be the base for the terror that the drowners brought to the livestock of the town. Gone unchecked, they’d start making off with small children. 

The alderman promised a hefty sum if Geralt brought him the heads of more than one drowner. The reward for a solitary beast was less than Geralt would have liked, but it was the best he could negotiate since the alderman already knew that Geralt was taking advantage of the local mage’s hospitality. Yennefer wasn’t to be trusted entirely with this arrangement, but at least Jaskier would be safe in her hands for a few days. 

Geralt set off alone, following the crudely drawn map. Drowners were known to hunt in packs, so Geralt took precautions by preparing a speed-enhancing potion while he waited for darkness to fall.

“You’ll be fine here, girl,” Geralt assured Roach as he led her to a nearby meadow of sweetgrass.

If Jaskier were well enough to travel with Geralt, he could have been tasked with tending to Roach while Geralt waded along the lake shore. It truly was kind of Jaskier to offer to tag along, despite it being impossible in his debilitated state. Now that Jaskier seemed to accept wholeheartedly Geralt’s apology for his actions on the mountain, Geralt looked forward to the future when Jaskier could join him on monster hunts again. Maybe by then, Geralt could learn more about the fluttery feeling he had in his chest whenever he thought of the bard.

Geralt trudged through the murky waters. Ripples of waves washed against the shore. Their foam was illuminated by moonlight so bright that Geralt didn’t need to use special abilities to see in the dark. He wondered if Jaskier had fallen asleep yet. The moon would be visible outside his window at Yennefer’s manor house. Geralt hoped that the brightness wouldn’t interfere with his rest. He worried that the bard would get little sleep while Geralt was away. He hoped that his restlessness wouldn’t interfere with his healing.

Geralt never had difficulty falling into a meditative trance when he needed to sleep, but he had become accustomed to sleeping at Jaskier’s side again. He hated to think of the sleepless night he, too, would get without the bard.

The lake was painfully silent. After an hour or two, Geralt doubted whether drowners inhabited the waters there at all. He made his way back to Roach and grabbed his bedroll from her saddlebags.

“We’ll rest here and wait,” Geralt said to the mare.

He made a crude fire-ring from stones at the edge of the meadow and used his powers to cast a spark of igni into the kindling. If Jaskier were here, he could be given the chore of gathering firewood. Geralt missed his company, as well as the extra set of hands that were always willing to do what was necessary to make a rough camp more inviting.

Geralt hoped that the fire would attract some drowner activity, but it wasn’t to be. He curled up on his side. The weak fire and Roach served as his only companions. He would remain alert through the night, in case the monsters dared to rear their heads.

Tucked into his bedroll, Geralt bunched a blanket into a ball and held it to his chest. In his mind’s eye, it served as a substitute for Jaskier. Geralt let his fingers tenderly caress the blanket, wishing it were the bard’s hair, his shoulder, his flank. He allowed a dream to wash over him, a dream where Jaskier truly did love him. The absurdity of such a promise was pushed aside and in his dream state, he believed in the dream and its truth. Before he drifted off to a restless sleep, fingers stroking an imaginary body, he whispered, “Goodnight, Jaskier.”

The following day was less than rewarding. Drowners were known to be most active at night, so Geralt spent the day brushing Roach and hunting a rabbit that he skinned and cooked for his dinner before night fell.

When an orange sky remained after the sun slipped beneath the horizon, Geralt stood at the water’s edge. He scanned the surface, hoping that the drowners would appear and that he could get on with the hunt that would earn him some coin, as well as keep him in Yennefer’s good graces.

He waded into the shallow water.

He had led Roach away from the lake, as he had done the previous night. Like Jaskier, Roach needed to be kept as far from danger as possible. The benefit of having a companion, be it in the form of a horse or a sweet-voiced bard, was not something to sacrifice by engaging in an ill-prepared hunt. If Geralt had an oren for every time he had to change his intended attack plan to keep Jaskier or Roach out of harm’s way, he’d be able to afford a bath and a room in every backwater town from Nilfgaard to Kaedwen.

Under a moonlit sky, Geralt sensed movement in the water, just beneath the surface. He drew the silver blade from its sheath. He had been so focused on his thoughts about Jaskier that he hadn’t noticed the swarm of drowners that fearlessly emerged from the water behind him.

He quickly downed his potion and, taking advantage of the speed he gained from it, Geralt turned swiftly to meet the first drowner with his blade. The drowner let out an ear-piercing shriek as it slid beneath the surface of the water with its head removed from its shoulders. The cacophony incited the other drowners to attack.

Geralt estimated that there were at least six drowners in the lake, now five because of the one that he had dispatched. But, there was no time to think. One of the drowners landed on his back with the wet slap of putrid flesh against the leather of Geralt’s armour.

Geralt pivoted to the left, slicing through a third drowner’s gelatinous limb as it reached out for him. Grabbing the leg of the drowner on his back, Geralt yanked the limb so it stretched to twice its length, forcing the drowner off Geralt’s back and into the depths where it met Geralt’s blade that pinned him to the shallow lake bottom.

If Jaskier were here, he could have warned Geralt about the pair of drowners who teamed up to dive below the surface of the lake. They wrapped themselves, one around each of Geralt’s legs, knocking him off balance. 

But Jaskier wasn’t here. Geralt hoped that he was sound asleep, his injuries wrapped in new dressings and a peaceful smile on his lips.

Jaskier… the bard was going to be the death of Geralt.

Geralt knew he needed to put Jaskier out of his mind for a moment while he addressed the monster issue at hand. “Sorry, Jask,” Geralt muttered before giving his full attention to the drowners that tugged at his legs. He nearly nicked himself with a slash of his sword as he released one, then the other, of the monsters. Both were sent to their death in the depths.

There was still another drowner unaccounted for. Geralt pirouetted to his right as the monster rose from the water. The vile beast got one slash in, before meeting its end at the tip of Geralt’s blade. Geralt’s hand moved involuntarily to his right bicep, where the drowner’s claws had sliced through the leather to break his skin.

“Fuck,” Geralt grunted as he sloshed through the water to reach the shore. He sat on the sandy beach and applied pressure to the wound. It would heal well enough, but he regretted suffering an injury to his sword arm. 

Geralt whistled for Roach to come to him. The ever-obedient horse sensed that the hunt was over. She stood still while Geralt took a satchel from her saddlebag.

Geralt waded into the water with his steel sword. The sooner he could collect the heads from the drowners to bring to the alderman, the sooner he could get back to Jaskier.

~ 

Yennefer strode across the cobbled path in the front garden when Geralt arrived at the manor.

“I need to see him,” Geralt said, without preamble. The scent of autumn lilies filled his nostrils with their sharp aroma. It drowned out the familiar sweet scent of lilac and gooseberries.

“He’s just fallen asleep,” Yennefer said, stepping back to put herself between Geralt and the entry door.

“It’s past noon.”

“I take it your hunt was successful?”

“There were more monsters than I bargained for,” Geralt said, casting a suspicious glance at Yennefer.

“I’m sorry, Geralt. But had I known, I still couldn’t have done anything differently,” Yennefer said. “You know how alderman can be. How many were there?”

“Six,” Geralt said, catching his breath. He should have known better than to rush back when Yennefer wanted to play gatekeeper to Jaskier. 

“And you dispatched them without incident?”

“Hardly.”

“You’re hurt.”

“It’s nothing.”

“I could—” Yennefer began as she opened the front door of her manor.

“It’s nothing. I want to see Jaskier.”

“Let him sleep, Geralt,” Yennefer said, laying her hand on Geralt’s chest. “He’s had a couple rough nights without you.”

Geralt sighed. The least he could do was go to Jaskier. He needed to check on him. He wanted to see him to make sure he was alive, breathing, recovering well. Only then would he be able to change out of his armour that still dripped with lake water and drowner viscera. 

“Come with me, I want to show you something,” Yennefer said.

Geralt followed Yennefer down the hall and into the room where their meals were served. The long table never had more guests than the two of them, although there was seating and elaborate place settings for more than twenty. 

“I obtained something for him while you were away,” Yennefer said. “But I saved it, so you could give it to him yourself.”

Yennefer walked to a chest that graced her dining area.

“He doesn’t know about it,” she said. “And we may want to wait until he’s a bit stronger before you gift it to him.”

Geralt’s eyes went wide as Yennefer took the lute from the chest.

“Where did you get it?” Geralt asked. He took the instrument from Yennefer and rubbed his hand along its neck.

“Some elves owed me a favour,” Yennefer said.

Geralt turned the lute in his hands—gently, because Jaskier had admonished him many times over the years about being too rough with the delicate instrument. He admired the rich polish and intricate scrollwork it possessed. It was beautiful, as beautiful as Jaskier himself.

“Of course it’s not the original one that was destroyed at Lord Mathen’s place.”

“It was destroyed…” Geralt said, nodding with sadness.

“I tried to get it back. I opened a portal and searched the premises, but it was hopelessly damaged. The strings broken and the wood burned in the fireplace. But this one is near enough a copy, I think,” Yennefer said. “He’ll probably notice the difference, but it was the best I could do, under the circumstances.”

“No, it’s fine,” Geralt said, holding the instrument carefully. He could well imagine Jaskier lazily strumming the strings, although he took care to ensure that the instrument remained silent in his clumsy hands. “He’ll get used to it in time. It’s perfect.”

“I was thinking we shouldn’t give it to him until we’re sure he can move his fingers well enough to play?”

“Maybe,” Geralt said. “Or maybe it will be just the thing to inspire his healing?”

“In any case, do whatever you think is best with it,” Yennefer nodded.

“Yennefer,” Geralt said, “you could have given it to him yourself. You didn’t have to wait.”

“I suppose not,” Yennefer said, taking the lute from Geralt. “But I think he’ll appreciate it more coming from you. After all, you are his favourite mutant.”

Geralt laughed at that. “I’ll be sure to let him know that you had a hand in getting it for him. He owes you so much thanks, as do I.”

“You’re welcome,” Yennefer said, as she secured the instrument in its case. “As for Jaskier, I do feel like I owe him an apology for getting off on the wrong foot with him. Perhaps this is my own small way of making up for it.”

Geralt quirked an eyebrow at Yennefer. He wasn’t sure what she meant.

“When you brought him to me after he had been strangled by the djinn….”

“Hmm,” Geralt grunted, but he had no idea what Yennefer was going on about.

“When I tried to bend him to my will,” Yennefer said. “I thought if he cast his final wish for the djinn, I could get what I wanted. I may have made demands of him… physical demands, for which he did not give consent.”

“He doesn’t have any grievance with you for that,” Geralt said. He vaguely remembered the story of how Yennefer had groped at Jaskier’s crotch when she was hell-bent on having her way. “It was years ago.”

“That may be true,” Yennefer said, stepping forward to take the lute from Geralt. “But the condition he was in when you brought him to me has made me reflect on my past actions with regret.”

“You can apologize to him, if you think it will make you feel better,” Geralt said. “I have no doubt he’ll put your mind at ease.”

Of course he would, just as Jaskier had always put Geralt’s mind at ease. Not only had he forgiven Geralt’s punishing words on the mountain, but he also gave Geralt reason to believe that their friendship could be renewed. And not only friendship, the affection they felt for each other lingered just below the surface, as it had for years… but Geralt didn’t share those thoughts with Yennefer.

“I will offer my apology if a suitable time comes,” Yennefer said, averting her eyes.

Geralt wondered what brought this regret to the forefront of Yennefer’s thoughts. He became concerned that there was more to Yennefer’s reminiscence over the first time she and Jaskier met.

“Is there something you’re not telling me?” Geralt asked.

Yennefer looked like a cat caught with her paw in the cream. She huffed out a breath. “It’s the damage he’s suffered at the hands of Lord Mathen’s men.”

“Damage?”

“Damage, yes, Geralt. He still has some internal injuries from the abuse he suffered, but he’s making an effort to walk a bit each day,” Yennefer said. “Still, I fear he is more damaged by the fact that his will was taken away by those men. He hasn’t slept soundly since you left to take care of the drowners. Potions don’t seem to make a difference.”

“Hmm,” Geralt grunted. So this was what reminded Yennefer of the transgressions she made against Jaskier when they first met. This was something he’d need to address further, since Yennefer apparently had no intention of making things clear with him. She knew more about Jaskier’s condition than she refused to discuss openly. It made him curious and not a little suspicious. He wondered what else Yennefer knew. What other secrets did she keep locked inside her mage’s mind?

“Why don’t you enjoy a bath for now?” Yennefer said, wrinkling her nose.

“Jaskier.”

“I’ll go watch over Jaskier’s sleep and I’ll notify you as soon as he awakens,” Yennefer said, dipping her head to inspect the drowner slash on Geralt’s bicep. “It will please him to see you cleaned up and relatively unharmed from your drowner hunt.”

Geralt agreed. If anything, a private bath would allow him time to consider the damage Yennefer spoke of. There was more to this that she wasn’t telling him.

“He called for you in his half-sleep, you know,” Yennefer said, lifting her eyes from Geralt’s injury.

Geralt made a huff of acknowledgement and headed for the bathing room. 

Perhaps Jaskier was more damaged than he thought.

~

Geralt inspected the gash on his arm. The wound had sealed somewhat already. A thin line of scabbing rose from his skin like a road on a relief map. When the scab fell off, he probably wouldn’t even have much of a scar to show for his experience.

If only Jaskier could heal as quickly.

Sinking down into the water, Geralt let its soothing heat soak into his skin. The bathing room was silent. Only the gentle splash of water against the marble walls of the tub and the hinted sound of steam rising reached Geralt’s sensitive ears.

He wouldn’t need Yennefer to tell him if Jaskier awoke calling his name. He’d be able to sense it through the walls of the manor, despite the distance between Jaskier’s room and the room where Geralt bathed. Geralt’s senses had always been more attuned to Jaskier.

Yennefer had told him that Jaskier had called for him in his fevered sleep state. Geralt inhaled deeply to calm himself. The scent of chamomile from the bath worked its wonders. 

Geralt knew well the dire feeling of calling out for help, only to go unanswered. When he began his journey on the Path, he had lost count of how many times he had called out for his mother. How many sleepless nights he spent crying into his pillow at Kaer Morhen?

He wouldn’t wish such trauma on anyone, especially not Jaskier. And yet, here they were.

Jaskier was as damaged as young Geralt had been. The thought of having someone who cared about him in those days washed over him like the rush of a tide. The young witcher, grieving over his abandonment was tended to by his brother wolves and Vesemir. The crying in the night for his mother became less frequent as time went on. With care, the orphaned boy would grow into the witcher he was destined to become.

But such damage could seldom be completely undone. Geralt still carried the scars of his mother’s abandonment within him, no matter how the Trial of the Grasses sought to bury it beneath the scarred flesh and the equally scarred mind of a witcher. Perhaps it would be the same for Jaskier. Whatever Mathen’s men had done to him, it wasn’t something that Jaskier could brush aside with his usual good cheer.

Geralt needed to help Jaskier to overcome this. Not only because he felt responsible for Jaskier’s plight, but because Jaskier was his friend, his companion, his bard, and more. But where to begin? If Jaskier handled such abuse in the same manner as Geralt did, burying it deeply beneath his layers of stoicism and solitude, it would be years before the subject could be discussed. And even then, it would need to be accompanied by a substantial amount of ale.

“Master Geralt?” 

A knock came on the door, interrupting Geralt’s thoughts.

“What is it?” he grunted.

The door opened and one of Yennefer’s handmaidens poked her head into the bathing room.

“It’s the bard,” she said. “Mistress Yennefer asked me to tell you that he was awake.”

“Thank you for letting me know,” Geralt said with a nod.

He waited until the handmaiden left, then dried himself quickly and dressed to go see Jaskier. Perhaps he’d figure a way to help him in the moments it took to traverse the manor along its torchlit passageways, but he doubted it.

~


	4. Chapter Four

“The witcher has returned,” Jaskier said, stretching out a bandaged hand to greet Geralt.

“And in one piece. Did you sleep well?” Geralt asked. He tried to put a positive tone in his voice for Jaskier’s sake. He sat on the bed beside Jaskier and took his hand.

“I haven’t slept well in weeks. It may surprise you to learn that I usually don’t sleep well when you’re away. This time was more difficult than some of the others I can remember though,” Jaskier said, turning his head to look out the window. “I imagine Yennefer told you about it?”

The drapes had been opened to let the afternoon’s rays into the room. A fire had not yet been lit in the hearth, but it was unnecessary. A warm breeze wafted through the window, fluttering the gossamer drapes so they billowed softly.

“She told me that you hadn’t slept well while I was gone, but that you had finally fallen asleep. That’s why I didn’t greet you immediately when I returned,” Geralt explained. “You need your rest.”

Jaskier pursed his lips. The bruising on his face had nearly healed and he looked more robust than he did the last time Geralt saw him. Despite the wrapped hands and the convalescent state, he looked almost back to his old self.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Jaskier said sadly.

“Hmm,” Geralt grunted. “I remember that one time when I couldn’t sleep.”

“And we found the djinn,” Jaskier said wistfully. “How was the hunt? Any good stories to tell?”

Geralt smiled softly, grateful that Jaskier changed the subject to something less polarizing. Jaskier loved hearing every detail of a hunt so he could work it into one of his songs. In happier days, he’d try out the rhymes and sing a tune while strumming on his lute. What Geralt wouldn’t give to be camped out in the quiet forest with Jaskier, instead of watching over the injured bard in Yennefer’s guest room. He hoped that someday, they could get back on the road together.

“I have a new scar to show for it,” Geralt said, pulling back the sleeve of the clean tunic Yennefer had provided for him.

With the wound revealed, the unimpressive new scar seemed inconsequential when compared to what Jaskier had suffered.

Jaskier craned his neck to get a better look at the scabbed slash that ran across Geralt’s bicep.

“I’ve seen you suffer worse damage than that,” Jaskier said with a grimace. 

“Indeed, you have,” Geralt said. Jaskier had patched Geralt up often enough that the sight of a healing wound was nothing new to him. There weren’t many wounds that a witcher couldn’t recover from adequately. Winding down after a potion, maybe needing some stitches, he’d be repaired and good as new after the worst of a contract. Right now, Geralt needed to occupy himself with Jaskier’s healing and whatever he could do to help speed it along, but Jaskier looked distressed.

“It’s a shame that it’s your… uh… sword… arm,” Jaskier said, making little grunts of displeasure as he tried to get comfortable.

“Why the face?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier shook his head. “My back…” 

Geralt’s eyes widened. “It’s uncomfortable as the flesh heals,” he said knowingly.

“Mmm,” Jaskier murmured as he fidgeted on the bed. “There’s a salve on the table that the ladies have been using. We can call for them—”

“I can apply it for you,” Geralt said quickly, seizing the opportunity to help when it was presented. There was no need to bother Yennefer’s maidens when Geralt had two capable hands, even if one of them was compromised a bit by his healing wound.

“If it’s not a bother,” Jaskier said hopefully.

“I may not be as lovely as a handmaiden,” Geralt said, “but I’d be honoured to help.”

With that, Jaskier smiled warmly. “You’ll do, I suppose,” he said, teasingly.

Geralt went to the table that held all manner of medicinal supplies. Extra bandages for wrapping Jaskier’s fingers, sleeping draughts, various potions, salves, ointments, and herbs that Yennefer had prepared for Jaskier.

“Is this it?” Geralt asked, holding up a bottle.

Jaskier nodded, “The one in the dark yellow bottle. It has the image of a succulent on the stopper.”

Geralt inspected the stopper and confirmed that a succulent was etched into the cork. He strode back to the bed where Jaskier had managed to sit up for himself. Geralt noted that Jaskier’s muscle tone was improving so that he no longer needed a helping hand to manoeuvre himself upright.

“I’ll need some help with this,” Jaskier said, grasping at the hem of his tunic. It looked as though he could move his fingers better than he could only a few days earlier.

“Of course,” Geralt replied. He set the bottle of salve on the bedside table and sat gently on the bed.

Jaskier had pushed the blankets out of the way, so now all that Geralt needed to do was to grip the hem of Jaskier’s tunic and lift it off him. He reached for the edge and tugged upward.

Jaskier helped by raising his arms in the air. Fortunately, the tunic was loose enough that Geralt didn’t have to struggle too much. He carefully removed the garment and set it aside on the bed.

Geralt schooled his expression before returning his attention to Jaskier. He could sense Jaskier’s heart racing. He respectfully presumed it was from the change in temperature and not from being half-naked in the presence of… how did Yennefer put it?... Jaskier’s favourite mutant.

“Should I make a fire first?” Geralt asked.

“No, I’m still warm from my nap,” Jaskier said. “It’s a nice day, and besides, this won’t take long.”

“Hmm,” Geralt assented. He let his eyes rove over Jaskier’s thickly furred chest. The bruising that he remembered from Jaskier’s first night at Yennefer’s had healed as much as the bruises had that once marred Jaskier’s face.

“I’ll need to turn around, or you can get in behind me,” Jaskier said.

Geralt, flush from admiring Jaskier’s chest with its rosy nipples, sprang into action. He got to his knees and crawled across the feather-stuffed mattress. He sat so his back rested on the headboard of the bed. With his legs splayed wide, one on each side of Jaskier, he could work on the abrasions while Jaskier did nothing but offer encouragement. He reached for the salve and settled behind Jaskier.

“Are you comfortable, sitting like that?” Geralt asked, noting the way that Jaskier leant over with his chin almost touching his knees.

“I’m fine,” Jaskier said, stretching out his muscular arms and leaning further forward.

The bard was certainly fit, Geralt mused. He uncorked the bottle of salve and set the stopper aside.

“Oh, and you’ll want to wipe your hands off after you’ve finished,” Jaskier said, reaching for his discarded tunic. “The salve is quite sticky. You can use this. I have other tunics in the cabinet. I do miss my doublets, but Yennefer thought it would be best to have loose-fitting clothing while my injuries are healing.”

“It seems she has thought of everything,” Geralt said, observing the angry criss-crossed pattern of scabbing on Jaskier’s back. 

“Where the fuck are my clothes, anyway?” Jaskier asked with a laugh.

Geralt dipped his fingers into the thick salve. It smelled of mint and rosemary. He smeared a dollop of it across a long line of crusted blood that ran diagonally across Jaskier’s left shoulder.

“They were falling off you when I brought you here,” Geralt said as he worked to trace the lines of each healing lash mark with the pads of his fingers. “Don’t you remember?”

As soon as the words left his mouth, Geralt thought better of it. 

Jaskier inhaled sharply.

Geralt’s fingers stilled on Jaskier’s back. “Fuck,” he said, the scent of blood, mud, and semen, invaded from his memory. “We don’t need to talk about it right now.”

Jaskier reached back for Geralt’s wrist. His bandaged fingers made to grasp him, but he was unable.

Geralt caught Jaskier’s hand and held it still.

“It’s alright,” Jaskier said, his voice broken. “We should talk about it.”

“Hmm,” Geralt murmured, in no position to agree or disagree. The bard had babbled about every topic imaginable in the years that he followed the witcher on the Path. Geralt had little chance of stopping him now, if Jaskier wanted to talk.

“It’s weird how it’s the kind of thing that’s hard to talk about,” Jaskier said, his voice wavering. “Singing songs about your kind of monsters—the strigas and drowners and nightwraiths, that’s easy. But when it comes to dangerous men, the terror they conjure is always a bit too close to home.” 

Geralt wanted nothing more than to take Jaskier in his arms to console him. Jaskier was altogether too damn delightful to have been subjected to such abuse. Instead of holding him, not wishing for Jaskier to feel restrained, Geralt lowered his head and pressed a soft kiss to the one smooth spot between Jaskier’s shoulderblades where the skin was perfectly unmarred, save for the dark hairs scattered there.

“It must have hurt,” Geralt whispered, his breath echoing back to him from Jaskier’s back.

“It did,” Jaskier said. “I remember that much.”

“I’m so sorry, Jask,” Geralt said. “This was all my fault—”

“It’s not your fault,” Jaskier said, turning his head so Geralt could see half of his face, his profile illuminated by the autumn sun that shone through the window.

Geralt closed his eyes. He was not worthy of Jaskier’s forgiveness, although it had been offered.

“Hey,” Jaskier said. “I got myself into that mess. I could have just as easily found myself in trouble without your help.”

“No,” Geralt said.

“Yes,” Jaskier insisted, bumping Geralt with his elbow.

Geralt huffed out a grunt of disbelief.

The room was quiet, except for the peaceful trickle of the stone waterfall.

“That felt nice, by the way,” Jaskier said.

“The salve?”

“That, too, but no. I meant your lips on my back.”

“Hmm,” Geralt murmured. He was overcome with the alien feeling of what he could only describe as affection for Jaskier. The sleep-warmth of his skin, the softness of his voice, the words that made him believe that he could be absolved of the guilt he had been carrying for weeks on end.

“I think this is a case where kissing something to make it feel better is highly underrated,” Jaskier said confidently.

Geralt said nothing.

Leaning to the side, Jaskier pushed himself to his knees and turned around so he faced Geralt. He nudged at Geralt’s chin with a bandaged hand.

Geralt tried to keep his eyes lowered, but Jaskier’s beckoning was irresistible. He followed the motion dictated by Jaskier’s hand and met Jaskier’s eyes with his own. He was overwhelmed by the urge to comfort Jaskier. He wanted to show him how much he cared for him, no matter how he had been trained as a witcher and no matter how the need to remain emotionless had been instilled in him.

Jaskier licked his lips. The cracks and splitting that were present when Geralt first brought him to Yennefer had healed. His lips were supple and plump and inviting, although Jaskier, like Geralt, had now fallen silent.

“Is that what you want?” Geralt asked, gathering his wits enough to speak. He wished there was an easier way than asking outright if Jaskier wanted him to kiss him better. This was torture. He knew he couldn’t expect Jaskier to love him, no matter what Yennefer said. He was a witcher. He needed no one, although he wanted to kiss Jaskier more than a weed wanted to feel the sunlight. Besides, it was his fault that Jaskier ended up so damaged, no matter how insistent the bard was that it was not Geralt’s fault. Jaskier couldn’t possibly—

“Kiss me," Jaskier said.

Jaskier smelled of wildflowers, honey, and a hint of spice. This was a scent Geralt knew well from his many years of travelling with the bard. The scent of Jaskier’s arousal was as familiar to Geralt as his own–and a far cry from the juniper scent of Jaskier’s fear.

Geralt could not deny Jaskier. Nor could he deny himself any longer. He pressed his palms to Jaskier’s cheeks. His lips hovered over Jaskier’s, as if he were still undecided. He intended to move slowly, unrushed. But Jaskier pushed him over the edge. Geralt felt Jaskier’s bandaged fingers at the nape of his neck, pulling him forward. His witcher medallion was pulled askew by Jaskier’s clutching fingers on the chain. Then a soft touch of Jaskier’s lips against his own.

For a moment, Geralt was enveloped in warmth. He felt wanted, and at peace.

Jaskier’s mouth was soft and sweet, but it also possessed a hunger that became evident when Jaskier sucked on Geralt’s bottom lip, pulling it into his mouth and teasing it with his tongue. Slow murmurs of pleasure flowed from Jaskier’s throat.

Geralt let his hands slide to Jaskier’s neck, his thumbs soothing the last vestiges of the bruising he suffered there. He felt Jaskier’s hands move down his arms. The damaged fingers couldn’t grasp, so it was hard to tell whether Jaskier wanted to pull him closer or whether he was trying to push him away. The gentle brush of Jaskier’s knuckles against the healing drowner slash made Geralt feel like Jaskier cared for him. Jaskier’s palm, pulling on the back of Geralt’s upper arm reassured Geralt that Jaskier wanted him closer.

This was everything Geralt had wished for, although he was never able to give his desire a voice. It was comfort, when none was needed. Forgiveness, when he thought he was undeserving. A companion, where none had been required for the journey. Kissing Jaskier, he found love, when he never considered himself worthy of such a gift.

When the kiss ended so Jaskier could catch his breath, they did not move apart. Needing no pause, because of his witcher-enhanced lungs, Geralt pressed his forehead to Jaskier’s and waited.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asked. “Are you alright?”

Geralt shook his head. He was not alright. Not by a long shot.

Jaskier’s heart raced beneath his skin.

Geralt lay his hand over Jaskier’s heart. The soft hair of Jaskier’s chest tickled his fingers and sent his imagination to places that were inappropriate to go with a friend, no matter how close. Although that _friend thing_ had been usurped by this… this… whatever this was, in the moments that had just passed.

“I never realized, all this time,” Geralt struggled for words. “I’ve watched you. Fuck, I can’t take my eyes off you. You’re so smart and funny and talented—and it’s not difficult to look at you all day with your garish outfits and your ridiculous hair, your beautiful eyes, and the flashes of your skin that sometimes tempt me so much that I can’t look away.”

Jaskier smiled. He kissed Geralt again, his smile pressing against Geralt’s lips.

Geralt was certain that he sounded like an idiot. “Understand that this is a lot for a witcher to say, so I hope you know that I mean it. My mutations… I don’t think and feel the exact way that a human does, but I do think that I feel the same way you do. I have for a long time.”

“And you chose _now_ to tell me all this?” Jaskier asked. “Of all the inopportune times—when I’m laying abed with broken bones and bruised flesh?”

Geralt knew Jaskier was right. He should have told Jaskier how he felt years ago, if only he realized the difference it would make in his life. Why now? Why not twenty years ago? A year ago? A month ago? Only now did it seem that the time was right. With Jaskier on the verge of death, suffering a beating that he would not have experienced if Geralt hadn’t been such an arse to him on the mountain. The moment to confess his love had come. 

Geralt, in his exasperation, huffed out, “I thought we were having a moment—”

“It was quite a moment,” Yennefer said from the doorway.

Geralt leapt up. 

“Fuck,” Jaskier said. His arms that once held the witcher were empty.

“Yennefer?” Geralt asked, shaking his head.

It always surprised Geralt when Yennefer appeared out of nowhere. His witcher medallion should have been vibrating madly at her intrusion. But Yennefer could easily get past his witcher senses by using her gods-be-damned mage powers. It was unsettling. Jaskier’s final words were apparently coherent enough that they brought a tear to Yennefer’s eye. She dabbed at it with her index finger, careful to not ruin her make-up.

“I was just stopping by to see how Jaskier was doing,” Yennefer said. She shifted her gaze from Geralt to Jaskier and said, “It looks like you’re doing well, bard?”

“Much better, now that I’ve gotten some sleep,” Jaskier said. “Thank you.”

Geralt could feel the self-consciousness that drove Jaskier’s cheeks into a furious blush. But Geralt was more disgruntled over Yennefer’s sudden appearance than being caught declaring his most jumbled thoughts to Jaskier.

“I’ll leave you to it then,” Yennefer said, turning on her heel and closing the door behind her.

Geralt turned from the door to Jaskier who had collapsed in a fit of giggling. He raised an eyebrow to the bard, who caught his breath and exclaimed, “She’s going to kill us.”

Geralt sat on the bed and rested a hand on Jaskier’s bare shoulder. He could only believe that Yennefer saw this coming and said, “I don’t think it will come to that.”

“She could turn us into toads,” Jaskier said.

“I’ll talk to her, Geralt said.

Jaskier insisted, “I’m coming with you.”

~

By the time Jaskier had donned a fresh tunic, Yennefer had wandered outdoors. Geralt found her in the rear garden of the sprawling manor.

The last of the tiger lilies had bloomed, filling the gardens with the spirit of autumn. In a few short weeks, the blossoms would hibernate and the lush greenery would have to suffice as a frame for the view of the countryside. 

Geralt noticed Yennefer standing at the edge of a waist-high stone wall that looked as if it had once been a ruin. The rocks had been painstakingly chiselled and pieced back together like a puzzle. Beyond the wall, the expanse of peaceful meadows spread out before the mage like an ocean of autumn wheatgrass.

Jaskier shambled along beside Geralt, who occasionally reached for Jaskier’s arm to steady him as he walked.

Whether Yennefer saw their approach out of the corner of her eye, or whether she used magic to sense their presence, Geralt could not say. She turned to face them before they reached the stone wall.

“Yennefer,” Geralt said, needing to say something to gain his mental footing.

“Jaskier,” Yennefer said, ignoring Geralt. “You are looking well today.”

“I owe my health to you, my good lady,” Jaskier said, giving a little bow. 

Geralt could have kissed him for being polite to the mage, but it was kissing that had put him onto this uncomfortable ground in the first place.

Yennefer looked Jaskier over, as if considering whether to turn him into a toad as Jaskier had speculated. Instead, she removed the shawl that was wrapped around her and draped it across Jaskier’s shoulders. 

“You need to take care of him,” Yennefer said, with a look of admonishment at Geralt.

“I didn’t think it was very cool outdoors,” Geralt said. And since when was Yennefer going to tell him how to care for Jaskier?

“I’m not cold, Yennefer,” Jaskier said. “But thank you, anyway.”

Yennefer looked at Jaskier with fondness. 

“About what happened back there…” Geralt began. He gestured toward the manor, but he knew not how to continue. He wasn’t about to apologize for kissing Jaskier, nor was he about to offend Yennefer by taking advantage of her hospitality. There was nothing he could say without feeling the burn of either friend’s disappointment.

“There’s no need,” Yennefer said, pressing a finger to Geralt’s lips. She then turned to Jaskier and nodded. “I apologize for entering your room without warning.”

“It’s your home,” Jaskier said, leaning against the wall. “There’s no need to apologise.”

Yennefer closed her eyes. “I have many regrets,” she said. “Some more bothersome than others. I need to give you and Geralt some privacy, now that it seems you’ve found each other.

Jaskier blushed.

Geralt thought Yennefer was going to bring up the way she manipulated Jaskier during the fiasco with the djinn, but she let that matter lie.

“We’re all together in this,” Geralt said, struggling to find the words that would make his thoughts clear. “What’s important is that Jaskier heals well.”

“You’re a good friend, Yennefer,” Jaskier said. His voice was as heartfelt as Geralt ever remembered hearing it. 

Geralt kept his thoughts to himself. As Yennefer’s former lover, there was nothing he could say to sum up the situation so it would be amenable to any of the three who stood at the wall.

“Come over here,” Jaskier said, stretching one arm wide. Yennefer’s shawl, a black woollen wrap shot through with threads of silver, hung open like an invitation.

Yennefer took two steps and settled her bottom against the wall beside Jaskier. 

The meadow filled with birdsong. Woodlarks and finches chirped in the afternoon breeze.

Jaskier, with his bandaged hands and shaky posture, pulled Yennefer into a one-armed embrace.

Geralt raised an eyebrow. Clearly these two had shared some kind of bond that he was not privileged to know about. The two of them had apparently grown close in the days that he was hunting the drowners. They seemed to have come to a kind of friendly agreement, but that wasn’t all. Geralt had suspected Yennefer’s affection for the bard when she exhibited so much concern for him after he began his recovery. Whatever Jaskier felt for the mage seemed to have evolved into similar concern, despite Jaskier’s wariness about her vengeful side.

“You’re not going to turn me into a toad, are you?” Jaskier asked hopefully.

“Not after all I’ve done to heal you,” Yennefer said with a wave of her hand. “That would be such a waste of my efforts.”

A soft breeze swept across the meadow, ruffling Jaskier’s hair.

“No, you care _too much_ for people,” Jaskier said, using a splinted hand to drag the hair from his eyes.

“Only certain people,” Yennefer said, her arm wrapped around Jaskier’s middle.

“Those who are struggling,” Jaskier said. “Those who can’t fend for themselves.”

As Geralt listened to Jaskier’s words, things became clearer. He remembered the infant daughter who was killed when Yennefer tried to protect her mother against a husband who demanded a son. Yennefer herself was an unwanted child, sold by her parents for a pittance. And now she embraced Jaskier, having tended to his injuries as lovingly as any mother.

“The broken, and the suffering, these are the souls you care for the most,” Jaskier finished.

Yennefer rested her head on Jaskier’s chest. “You’re right. I’m happy for the opportunity to care for you,” she said.

“I want you to know that I truly appreciate all you’ve done for me,” Jaskier said.

There was truth to Jaskier’s kind words about Yennefer, but if Jaskier appreciated Yennefer this much now, just wait until she gave him the lute. Geralt would lose whatever scrap of affection Jaskier could spare him. 

“There’s something in it for her,” Geralt said, unable to keep quiet any longer.

Yennefer raised her head from Jaskier’s chest.

Jaskier raised an eyebrow at Geralt.

“She hasn’t healed you out of the goodness of her heart,” Geralt spat out. “She expects something in return.”

Yennefer tensed in Jaskier’s embrace.

“But I am healing pretty well, considering,” Jaskier said. “If there’s some reward you’ve promised her, I can’t argue that she’s not deserving.”

“He did promise me something that I bartered for,” Yennefer said, her shoulders shaking.

“What did you promise her, Geralt?” Jaskier asked, holding Yennefer more closely.

Geralt wished he hadn’t said anything. When the spark of jealousy over Jaskier and Yennefer’s friendship ignited inside him, he lost his bearings. An hour ago, he had all but confessed his love to Jaskier and now his only operating brain cell told him that Yennefer was going to fuck everything up. Of course, he did what seemed best at the moment. He blurted out the first contemptuous thing that sprang to his mind. It was not unlike the time when the three of them took in a similar view of a different landscape. Today, the rolling meadows of Novigrad’s wheatgrass replaced a desolate mountainside in Barefield. His harsh words had driven Jaskier away then. And now he had practically threatened to renege on his promise to introduce Cirilla to Yennefer—something he knew would hurt Yennefer deeply. He’d drive both Jaskier and Yennefer away, if he didn’t learn to cherish the people who cared about him.

“Fuck,” Geralt said.

“You’re going to keep your promise, aren’t you, Geralt?” Yennefer asked.

“What was it?” Jaskier asked, giving Yennefer’s shoulder a shake.

Geralt reined in more harsh words before he could utter them. He pleaded for their sharpness to die on his tongue. “Of course,” he said. “I’m sorry if you thought I would consider doing otherwise.”

Yennefer visibly relaxed.

“What did he promise?” Jaskier prodded. “Something exciting, I hope.”

“Something important,” Yennefer answered weakly.

With a furrowed brow, Jaskier looked at Yennefer in search of an answer, but the mage remained silent. 

“What could you possibly want? You have everything anyone could ever desire,” Jaskier said, using his free hand to gesture at the manor and the beautiful countryside. Even the foliage that surrounded this peaceful garden evoked a sense of happiness.

“Not everything,” Yennefer said, solemnly.

Geralt sighed. This was not his place to speak. He’d do well to keep his mouth shut.

Jaskier urged Yennefer on with a “Hmm? Do tell me.”

Jaskier’s voice, gentle with concern, always had a persuasive edge to it. He had won Geralt over with it many times. This was the voice he used to gain the favour of his audience, be they a peasant or a royal courtesan or a queen.

“I want to be needed,” Yennefer muttered, turning to Jaskier. “To have meaning in someone’s life, to be important to someone.” 

Jaskier sighed. “Well, you’re important to me,” he said with a tightening of his embrace. 

Tears welled in Yennefer’s eyes.

Geralt looked away.

Yennefer let out a shuddery breath and seemed to collect herself.

“Without you, I’d never have been able to heal as well as I am,” Jaskier added.

“He promised me that I could meet his child of surprise,” Yennefer said, matter-of-factly.

“Geralt! That sounds wonderful,” Jaskier said with a gasp.

“I’m looking forward to it,” Yennefer said.

“How in Melitele’s perfumed-scented bath did you ever get him to agree to that?” Jaskier asked of Yennefer.

Yennefer looked at Jaskier and shrugged. “It was what he promised me for healing you.”

“Oh, oh, oh, Geralt,” Jaskier chuckled, wagging a bandaged finger. “You are not going to blame me for setting the wheels in motion that will force you to finally meet that child. It’s something you should have done long ago, irrespective of my involvement—or Yennefer’s. It’s high time you paid a visit to the Cintran court. Of course, I’ve performed there a number of times over the years. You might say I’ve kept an eye on your little surprise, but have you ever asked me about her? I could have told you that Princess Cirilla is a polite young lady. That she can dance a jig as well as she can play knucklebones—”

“He didn’t even know she was a girl when I asked about the child,” Yennefer interrupted.

Geralt grimaced at both Yennefer and Jaskier. 

“It was a brilliant idea for you to negotiate that as part of the deal to restore me to health. Just brilliant!” Jaskier said, smiling widely. “He should have visited the girl years ago.”

“He argued against it,” Yennefer said.

“Of course he did,” Jaskier said. “I can hardly believe he cared about me enough to agree to your proposal.”

Geralt rolled his eyes. The discomfort of being called out by the people he cared for the most in the world was worse than the bite of a striga.

“It took some convincing,” Yennefer said.

“It didn’t take _too much_ convincing,” Geralt objected. He jutted out his chin at Jaskier and added, “You weren’t meant to know about it.”

Jaskier winked at Geralt and said, “And yet, here we are.”

The meadow’s birdsong went quiet.

“Come here,” Jaskier said, throwing open his arm that was not embracing Yennefer.

Geralt knew when he was defeated. He sulkily stepped toward the wall and turned so Jaskier could wrap his other arm around him.

“Now, I am feeling a chill,” Jaskier said. “And I need the both of you to help me get back to the manor.”

“You’re in pain?” Geralt asked, his brow furrowed with concern.

“I wouldn’t describe it so much as _pain_ …” Jaskier said.

“He likes to be dramatic,” Yennefer quipped.

Geralt sighed. “I noticed,” he said.

“Oh, you both know me too well,” Jaskier said, stepping away from the wall.

Geralt slipped an arm under Jaskier’s to support much of his weight. “I could carry you,” he said, fully prepared to hoist Jaskier over his shoulder and swiftly return him to the manor so he could get some rest.

Yennefer laughed. “No! I forbid it. His back is nearly healed. I don’t want him jostled about. His seams could rip open.”

“Hmm,” Geralt murmured. He’d have to settle for accompanying Jaskier back to the manor by walking alongside him.

The trio stepped over the rough cobblestones, Geralt on one side of Jaskier and Yennefer on the other. Behind them, a golden sunset washed over the meadow. 

With his hand at the small of Jaskier’s back, Geralt’s dearest wish was that he and Jaskier could pick up where they left off when Yennefer had interrupted them. It was too much to ask that Jaskier return the love that bubbled up inside Geralt whenever he thought of the bard, but kissing seemed to be acceptable to Jaskier before their conversation with Yennefer, and he hoped it would be acceptable after.

Still, Geralt worried that he had ruined his chances of kissing Jaskier again. He hated himself for having so little control over the harsh words that rose from him when he felt the pressure to speak out. Perhaps with practice, he could learn to think before he spoke when the feelings of those who cared for him were at stake. 

~

In the following days, Geralt spent most of his time sharpening his swords and replenishing his potions while Jaskier slept. In good weather, Geralt took Roach for a ride along the forest roads that led from the manor. It was only a matter of time before another contract became available, so he did his best to stay alert and remain ready to take on whatever challenge came his way. The upcoming trip to Cintra, too, weighed heavily on his mind. He could not imagine undertaking such a journey without Jaskier at his side.

When he wasn’t honing his witcher skills and managing his weapons and potions, Geralt spent his time caring for Jaskier. Geralt treated the bard gently, massaging his fingers when they ached, smoothing the salve on his back so the lashes were a distant memory. If the day was pleasant, and Jaskier felt strong, they walked outdoors. 

His worries about losing Jaskier’s affection were alleviated by the bard himself on the same day of their conversation in the rear garden. Geralt learned that Jaskier loved to kiss. 

At first hesitant, and a bit nervous, Geralt practiced kissing Jaskier whenever he could. He trailed kisses along Jaskier’s jawline and down his neck, listening for Jaskier’s little sounds that told him what the bard liked best. Geralt discovered that a firm application of lips to Jaskier’s neck, just below his ear, elicited a soft moan and made the bard’s useless fingers flutter with excited movement.

As for Geralt, he liked kisses best when his bare chest was pressed against Jaskier’s while the bard was still in his sleep clothes. With his enhanced witcher senses, he could feel the softness of Jaskier’s chest hair that lay beneath his tunic. Geralt had never lain with a man before and he found the idea of it thrilling, especially when he thought about the prospect of making love to Jaskier. The bard had won Geralt’s stony heart before the witcher even knew he had one to offer.

They’d lie together for hours, mouths pressed together, seeking comfort in each other until their chests heaved with lust and they’d have to stop, lest things go further than either was ready for. Five minutes later, they’d be at it again with soft murmurs and gentle touches, their lips finding joy in exploring each other’s mouths.

When they slept, Geralt wrapped himself around Jaskier. He let one sword-calloused hand rest on Jaskier’s warm belly. His nose buried in the dark locks of hair at Jaskier’s nape. 

The bard smelled of honey and wildflowers, never fear, never sadness. Not anymore.

Geralt woke every morning to Jaskier’s beautiful blue eyes, sparkling in greeting to him before he began each day. The warmth of Jaskier’s body against his, grounded Geralt in a world that would have seemed surreal to him only a few months earlier.

And Jaskier was exceptionally good at kissing. Geralt relished the sweet little moaning sounds he made. It sounded as if Jaskier were taking sips of pure happiness from Geralt’s mouth into his own. 

Geralt sometimes wondered if Yennefer would say anything untoward about it when he joined her for a meal or passed her in a hallway with his lips swollen and red from Jaskier’s attentions. Fortunately, Yennefer had the good sense to refrain from commenting.

One morning, not long after their conversation in the rear garden, as they lay wrapped around each other, Jaskier said, “I didn’t mean to embarrass you that day with my remarks about you not yet meeting your child of surprise.”

“Hmm,” Geralt murmured. He wasn’t offended by Jaskier, who had simply behaved as he usually did, embracing light-heartedness where he found it.

“I’m sorry if you found my attempts at humour in any way humiliating,” Jaskier said, his bandaged fingers stroking Geralt’s palm.

“I didn’t mind,” Geralt said. And it was the truth. If anything, he was pleased that Jaskier had recovered enough from his injuries so he could find joy in a conversation with friends.

Geralt was most relieved that Jaskier had ignored the harshness of his words when he asserted that Yennefer had healed him for her own gain by choosing the meeting with Cirilla as payment for helping Jaskier. The bard never mentioned it again. Instead, he continued to ply Geralt with the sweetest of kisses at every opportunity.

But the other harsh words Geralt had spoken to the bard still weighed him down like a waterlogged kikimora, dragging him beneath the inescapable depths of despair.

“What are you thinking?” Jaskier asked, when Geralt remained silent.

Geralt often thought of one thing in particular while Jaskier slept, and he took the time for meditation. He couldn’t help but remember how they had gotten to this point—the cruelty on the mountain still gnawed at him and made his insides clench with hatred for himself. 

He turned the words over in his mind, _If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands…_

What kind of man said that to a cherished friend? He truly was a monster, unworthy of Jaskier’s friendship, undeserving of his love, contemptible to Jaskier and to everyone decent and good.

“Nothing,” Geralt said, but the quaver in his voice told Jaskier it was a lie.

Geralt opened his eyes wide against the morning light that filtered through the gossamer drapes. He blinked a half-dozen times to clear away any moisture that had gathered there before Jaskier could turn to see his face. 

Witchers had no emotions, and they certainly didn’t cry.

“What is it, Geralt?” Jaskier asked. 

Jaskier’s sleepy question fluttered into his ear, his voice only a soft whisper.

Geralt would regret those hateful words until he drew his last breath.

_If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands…_

“It’s nothing,” Geralt whispered, not wanting to worry Jaskier with concerns about his own shortcomings.

Jaskier freed himself from Geralt’s hold and turned in his arms to face him.

“It’s something,” Jaskier said.

Jaskier’s bandaged hand found its way beneath the covers. He pressed his palm to Geralt’s taut belly, ragged with scars from battles of the past. 

The warmth of his fingers soothed Geralt. He cherished Jaskier’s gentle touches on his skin that told him of Jaskier’s desire to be close.

“Tell me?” Jaskier asked.

Geralt shook his head and leant forward to kiss Jaskier. He had learned this was a most pleasant way to get Jaskier to stop talking. But as much as Geralt wanted to remain silent, he found Jaskier’s soft touch and gentle kisses deserving of an answer. 

“These… feelings,” Geralt stuttered when he drew back. “Emotions… or whatever you want to call them.” 

They made Geralt ache.

Still, Geralt relished the warmth of Jaskier’s body as he lay in his arms, never far away from his body or his mind. Being this close to Jaskier made the world around him disappear. He wanted this peaceful feeling always, for the rest of his days, although he never could feel worthy of such a treasure.

Geralt averted his eyes, unwilling to let Jaskier see them, shining wet over the gold. 

Jaskier raised a hand to Geralt’s face and used his thumb to brush a tear from Geralt’s eye.

“And they say witchers don’t have emotions,” Jaskier said softly. It wasn’t a question, nor was it ridicule. Jaskier’s voice was full of wonder, more than anything else.

“That’s not entirely true,” Geralt said.

“I could have told you that,” Jaskier said. He leant forward and pressed his forehead to Geralt’s while he gently stroked the witcher’s cheek. “You, my love, are one of the most deeply-feeling creatures I have ever had the pleasure of knowing.”

 _Love…_ Jaskier called him his _love…_ Geralt too often recalled the hatred directed toward him because he was a witcher. The disdain, the stone throwing, the spitting. Sometimes, he wished it didn’t hurt so much. 

Of course, Jaskier’s songs of heroic praise did much to remedy the mistreatment his kind faced, but still the sorrow for being cast out lingered. Rivers of sadness ran deeply within Geralt and rarely came to the surface.

But they sometimes did.

Memories of his mother sometimes edged their way into Geralt’s thoughts, and when they did, they were always accompanied by a certain horror. The depth of hatred that must have existed for a mother to abandon her child was unimaginable. Geralt only had to look at Yennefer’s yearning for a child to understand that not all parents behaved as his mother did.

Any child would be fortunate to have Yennefer to dote upon them. Geralt’s mother must have been so unlike Yennefer, to simply abandon him. And despite Geralt’s pain, he had done nearly the same to his own child of surprise.

Jaskier was right, it was time that he met Cirilla. He needed to show some concern for her, at least as a poor substitute for a parent—and not as the monster who had been absent from her life for all of her early years. He owed Yennefer some gratitude for helping him to understand parenthood through her feelings about motherhood. But most importantly he owed thanks to the man in his arms. Jaskier’s love had turned Geralt into something more human again, whether he liked it or not. 

And he hated it.

“Why does it hurt so much to have feelings?” Geralt closed his eyes and asked.

“Oh, Geralt,” Jaskier said.

Geralt felt Jaskier’s arms tugging him closer. He embraced Jaskier, holding him gently so he didn’t disrupt any healing ribs or broken bones.

Jaskier peppered his face, his eyes, with kisses, before finding his mouth. With warm and sensuous kisses, he made Geralt believe that he was well and truly forgiven for the chaos that had brought to them both during this stage of their journey together. 

Both men were damaged in their own ways. Only by seeking each other for the healing they craved, could they begin the work of repairing what had been done to their fragile selves.

But at the moment, Jaskier had other ideas.

“You know,” Jaskier whispered, taking a moment to catch his breath. “If we continue to kiss like this…”

At Jaskier’s silence, Geralt opened his eyes that had been closed at the feel of Jaskier kissing him.

Jaskier’s brow was furrowed and he looked pained.

“What is it?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier’s cheeks took on a rosy hue. “It’s just that all this kissing has given me so many ideas for poems and songs and uh… well… other endeavours,” Jaskier said.

Beneath the covers, Jaskier slightly thrusted his hips forward, his erect cock nudging Geralt’s muscular thigh.

“Oh,” Geralt groaned, understanding full well what Jaskier was hinting at.

Indeed, in the hours that passed at Jaskier’s side, Geralt had willed his own cock to remain unobtrusive when faced with his needs. Sharpening his swords, meticulously crafting his potions, and taking Roach for a ride through the countryside only helped quell his desires so much. A deft hand, when Yennefer was away from the manor and Jaskier was asleep, helped to satisfy Geralt’s baser urges. But now it seemed that Jaskier was ready to address the matter of his own, with some help from Geralt.

Jaskier met Geralt with a harder thrust and Geralt did nothing to stop him. Instead, he pushed Jaskier onto his back and kissed him deeply as he ground his hips into Jaskier’s thigh.

Jaskier panted breathlessly, his eyes blown wide.

“You may be human,” Geralt said fondly, “but you’re not so different than I am… in at least one aspect.”

Jaskier laughed. “It’s all this kissing. It’s reminding me that I have a serious problem.”

“Problem?” Geralt asked, worried for the bard’s health.

Jaskier waggled his bandaged fingers in the space between them. “I can’t really use these well enough to help myself, if you know what I mean,” Jaskier said with a grin.

“Hmm,” Geralt said, taken aback. He would give anything to touch Jaskier or, by the gods, to feel Jaskier’s hands on him. The thought of it made him grow harder with no hope of relief, not while Jaskier’s fingers were still healing.

“Well?” Jaskier asked.

“I may be willing to help you with that, if you’d like me to,” Geralt said smugly.

“I was hoping you would,” Jaskier said, tracing Geralt’s chin with his nose.

Geralt bit his bottom lip. Jaskier had been so horribly abused. He considered it an honour that he trusted Geralt enough to touch him… there. But he needed to know that Jaskier would have no regrets about this. Of course, he would stop touching Jaskier the moment that the bard objected.

“Are you sure?” Geralt asked, taking his time to watch Jaskier’s face. He searched for any sign of hesitation, but Jaskier only nodded eagerly.

Geralt was hopelessly aroused by Jaskier’s antics. He took a deep breath.

“Proceed, witcher,” Jaskier said with a flourish. He used his arms to raise the covers from his chest.

Geralt laughed. Whatever he expected when considering Jaskier’s self-proclaimed prowess in the bedroom, this was not it. He stopped smiling when Jaskier simply looked at him with longing in his eyes and whispered, “Please?”

Geralt accepted the invitation and slipped his hand beneath the covers. His fingers roved over Jaskier’s tunic, savouring the feel of the soft hair that lay underneath. He found Jaskier’s waistband and dared not take his eyes off Jaskier’s face as he explored the soft skin of Jaskier’s belly and the coarse hair that touched his fingers as he found what he needed. With a firm palm, he pressed against Jaskier’s warm erection.

With a soft gasp, Jaskier arched into Geralt’s touch.

Geralt kissed Jaskier’s lips, his tongue delving into the bard’s mouth, tasting the fire of passion that burned inside him. The scent of Jaskier’s arousal and the feeling of his cock, warm and hard in Geralt’s hand, combined as if it were the most wondrous thing Geralt had ever experienced in his exceedingly long life.

Jaskier moaned into the kiss and thrust his hips upward to get more friction against Geralt’s palm.

Geralt had never held a cock, besides his own, in his hand. He wasn’t exactly sure what to do with it, but he knew what he liked for himself. He gave Jaskier’s cock a squeeze and used his thumb to trace the edge of Jaskier’s foreskin where the head of his cock peeked out, ripe for the taking. He swiped the droplets of anticipation from its head. 

Jaskier threw his head back and mumbled, “This is not going to take long.”

“That’s fine,” Geralt whispered, pushing his nose behind Jaskier’s ear as he breathed in the scent of his sex. “Take as long as you need.”

Jaskier moaned happily and Geralt followed along, paying attention to the things Jaskier indicated he liked. He moved his hand lower to stroke Jaskier’s plump balls, rolling them between his fingers, but that only made Jaskier whine with dismay, although he still looked adoringly into Geralt’s eyes.

“Alright, then,” Geralt murmured, moving his hand back to gently squeeze Jaskier’s cock.

Jaskier smiled and made little pleased sounds from somewhere deep in his throat.

Geralt’s cock was hard and leaking slick. He wanted nothing more than to take himself in hand, but this experience was all for Jaskier. Even if the bard could reciprocate, Geralt would refuse. This was all about Jaskier’s pleasure and Geralt was not going to degrade the privilege he had been granted by taking something for himself. If he could convince himself that he might do a decent job of it, Geralt considered diving beneath the covers and using his mouth on Jaskier. He clenched his jaw and squeezed his eyes shut, such was the pleasure of thinking about how Jaskier would taste in his mouth. But any effort toward that direction would have to wait until next time, because on the very next stroke of Jaskier’s cock, the bard had turned into a shuddering mess.

“Oh… fuck… Geralt…” Jaskier panted.

Geralt felt Jaskier’s entire body go tense. He continued to stroke Jaskier’s cock as the bard enjoyed his release for the first time in weeks.

“You have undone me,” Jaskier gasped, his fingers gripping uselessly at the sheets. 

Geralt was rather pleased with himself that he was able to help Jaskier get some relief.

“Melitele’s secret dildo collection, shared with her loyal fucking worshippers,” Jaskier blurted out.

“Shh,” Geralt laughed. He gently bit down on Jaskier’s neck, in the place that gave him so much pleasure earlier. 

“Fucking cock!” Jaskier shouted, all the air leaving his lungs as his shudders grew more subdued. 

Geralt shook his head. Leave it to Jaskier to chatter away the entire time that Geralt stroked him to completion. But had he really expected Jaskier to behave any differently? Geralt found it completely endearing. He stilled his hand and kissed Jaskier’s mouth. When he drew back, Geralt basked in the sight of Jaskier’s eyes, glazed over in bliss.

“I’ve made a mess of these sheets, not to mention your hand,” Jaskier said lazily. “Yennefer’s handmaidens will deserve proper compensation for the extra cleaning tasks they will bear.”

“I’m glad I could help,” Geralt said, resting his head on Jaskier’s shoulder. He wiped his fingers, slick with Jaskier’s spend, on the sheets.

“Nngh,” Jaskier said, futilely making a gesture at Geralt’s groin.

“I’ll be fine,” Geralt said. “Don’t worry about me.”

Geralt lay with Jaskier in his arms. He tried to calculate how many monsters he had killed during the past year—anything to take his mind off his swollen cock. There were the recent drowners, that made six. There was another drowner problem back in the spring, but there were only two in that case, so a total of eight. The ghoul in Aedirn, nine. They thought there was a werewolf in Redania, but it was really a nightwraith… ten….

“That feels nice,” Jaskier murmured.

“Hmm?” Geralt questioned.

Jaskier bumped Geralt’s hand with his chin.

Geralt hadn’t realized that he had slipped his hand down the wide neckline of Jaskier’s tunic and he had been tracing little whorls with his fingertips into Jaskier’s chest hair. He stopped the motion of his fingers and reached for Jaskier’s hand.

Although the bones of Jaskier’s fingers had been making some progress in healing, Geralt wished he could do something more to help him heal faster. The lute that Yennefer had packed away for him would cheer Jaskier, but he needed to be able to move his fingers more to play. If only there were a way…

“I think I have an idea,” Geralt said.

“Don’t strain yourself, dear witcher,” Jaskier said sarcastically. “What kind of idea?”

“Something to help with your fingers,” Geralt said.

“Already trying to get out of touching my cock again, I see,” Jaskier said.

“No, idiot,” Geralt said with exasperation, “It’s something that might enhance your healing. I had thought of it when I first brought you here. It was too dangerous then, but now that you’re stronger, it might work.”

“What is it?” Jaskier asked. “One of your witchery potions?”

“Exactly,” Geralt said. 

Geralt knew that Jaskier would love to play the lute again, but he was hesitant to speed up the healing process for a number of reasons. For one thing, there was the very real danger that the bone-mending witcher potion, even in its diluted form, could have an adverse effect on Jaskier. 

There was also the issue of the lute itself. Jaskier would undoubtedly be thrilled when he learned that Yennefer had procured a lute for him—and from elves, no less. 

He’d be grateful to her for such a gift. 

He’d probably write songs for her. 

He might even want to follow her from town to town as she served as a mage to the masses. 

He’d be her bard, her companion.

Geralt felt the flicker of jealousy ignite in him, but at least this time he knew he needed to stave it off before he could do any damage because of it. He clenched his jaw and told himself that if Jaskier wanted to worship Yennefer for giving him an elven lute, then so be it. He needed to trust that Jaskier wanted him in his life and in his bed, no matter how improbable it was that his companionship under the covers would be desired for the long term. If Jaskier loved Yennefer more than him because she got him a damn lute, it was a risk Geralt needed to accept. Besides, it would make Jaskier so happy to play an instrument again.

“Uh, Geralt?” Jaskier prodded.

“Jaskier,” Geralt breathed. “I didn’t dare suggest it when you were near death, but now you may be strong enough to give it a try.”

Jaskier turned his hand over in Geralt’s palm. “But won’t it kill me? I’m no witcher. I’m just a man,” he said.

“Not if I dilute the potion enough,” Geralt said. “When you were first injured and so very weak, yes—it might have been toxic. But now that you’ve gotten some of your strength back, a potion might be able to help your bones heal more quickly.”

“Can Yennefer be there, if we try it?” Jaskier asked tentatively.

“Of course. She might be able to offer her expertise if we need help.” Geralt didn’t dare suggest that something could go horribly wrong. There was no need to worry Jaskier unnecessarily. But it was a good idea to involve Yennefer, despite everything.

“Geralt?” Jaskier began. “I know we haven’t discussed it, but do you think I’ll ever be able to play the lute again?”

Geralt stroked Jaskier’s hand tenderly. “I don’t know,” he said, pressing kisses to each of the bard’s fingers. “But I hope that we’ll find out soon.”

~


	5. Chapter Five

Geralt stripped the leaves off the plant and dropped them into a marble bowl for Yennefer to grind with the pestle.

From his seat on a high stool, Jaskier looked on. His crippled hands, unbound from their splints and bandages, rested on the workbench.

After a trip to the herbalist in Novigrad, Geralt had already composed a witcher-strength potion that would mend any of his bones that were broken in the course of a monster hunt. But it had taken much of the day for the herbalist to locate the necessary herbs that would dilute the potion’s power enough for a human like Jaskier to tolerate it.

The workshop was cool, as the sun had already set. A hint of crisp autumn air squeezed through the narrow windows of the workshop, despite them being closed against the threat of an incoming storm. Their sills were covered in dust that made Geralt believe Yennefer’s handmaidens did not have access to this particular room of the manor.

Before Geralt left Jaskier’s room, he had already laid a fire. He planned to stay alert through the night as he kept watch over Jaskier for any adverse effects from the potion.

No fire burned in this workroom of sorts that Yennefer had set aside for the specific purpose of crafting potions and preparing magical treatments. Besides the large square workbench that emerged like an island in the centre of the room, other furnishings had been crammed into the space as if they were an afterthought. Butted against one wall, an oak desk was strewn with parchment. On the parchment, lists of herbs and ingredients were written in Yennefer’s hand. In one corner of the room, a mismatched pair of plush chairs may have once been used in a waiting area for Yennefer’s clientele. The scent of lilac and gooseberries did not linger here, but the pungent scent of fresh herbs and spices that hung to dry from a half-dozen wide ceiling beams stabbed at Geralt’s sensitive nostrils.

“This should be enough,” Yennefer said, pushing the bowl across the table to where Geralt worked.

“Thanks,” Geralt said.

“Getting nervous?” Yennefer asked, patting Jaskier on the back.

“A little,” Jaskier admitted. “But I know that you and Geralt will be here to pull me out of harm’s way, if necessary.”

“Hmm,” Geralt muttered. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that. 

Jaskier dismissively waved a hand at Geralt. “I’m excited, more than anything,” he said. “What’s in that stuff, anyway?”

“It’s an herb mixture named for the full moon,” Geralt said. “When I combine it with the tincture from the leaves Yennefer gathered, it will be much less potent than what I can withstand as a witcher. But you should do well with it.”

“The herbalist here in Novigrad specializes in making these rare herbs available,” Yennefer said as she scraped the paste of herbs off the pestle. “They can only be collected by the light of a full moon. And they only grow in a valley south of the town. You’re lucky that I live nearby.”

From a distance, a rumble of thunder rolled across the countryside, shaking the manor windows.

“It’s a good thing we didn’t need the herbs collected tonight,” Geralt said, eying the windows when the patter of rain began to drum against them.

Jaskier nodded and watched Geralt mix the herbs into a vial of mead.

“Do you think the potion will give me the ability to see in the dark?” Jaskier asked, his eyebrows raised in curiosity.

“It’s not that kind of potion,” Geralt answered as he capped the vial and shook it.

“Will it make my eyes turn black?” 

“No, not at all,” Geralt muttered. 

“Will my hair turn white?” 

“Probably not.”

“Will it make my cock bigger?”

Geralt hid a knowing grin and said, “Your cock is perfect just as it is.”

Yennefer rolled her eyes.

“Come on, Yennefer,” Jaskier said smugly, his fingers clenching the workbench in front of him. “You know I’m perfect. Or have you forgotten that you once copped a feel?”

Geralt looked up from the potion he was mixing. “Jaskier,” he cautioned, knowing of Yennefer’s regret.

Yennefer lowered her head.

Jaskier went silent. He took his time to let his eyes rove over the workbench, its surface marred with scars from past experiments. 

Geralt followed Jaskier’s gaze. A gash from a knife had plunged more than an inch deep into the workbench’s wooden top. A circular burn from an overflowing beaker of poison had left its mark on the wood. The stains of herbs seeped deep into the grain. Damage had been done, but the tabletop was still perfectly usable for their potion-making efforts.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier said. “Sometimes, I speak before I think. That was inappropriate.”

“No,” Yennefer said hastily. “What I did to you, back then, was inappropriate. And I’m sorry. You’ve grown to become a… a _friend_. And I offer you my humblest apology.”

“That’s really not necessary,” Jaskier said, throwing his arms open wide.

“Yes, it is,” Yennefer insisted.

The mage walked to the end of the workbench and rounded it to where Jaskier sat. Her hand hovered over Jaskier’s arm, almost as if she did not dare touch him.

“Jaskier, I behaved abominably when we first met. I was out of my mind with the desire to regain what was taken from me. It was the only thing I could think about. I didn’t care who I hurt or what I did to get what I wanted,” her voice wavered in anguish. “My ability to have a child was stolen from me. I’d never have a child to nurture, to care for… it had become my greatest desire and when I saw the chance, I took it.”

There’s more than one way to nurture a child, Geralt thought. Someday soon, he would introduce his child of surprise to Yennefer. He had no way of knowing how long they would spend together or what they would discuss. Did children of Cirilla’s age even discuss things with adults? In any case, things might work out in Yennefer’s favour when he brought Cirilla to meet her. Perhaps they’d find a common bond. 

“In my mania to regain my womb, I would stop at nothing. I didn’t think. I wasn’t thinking of you at all,” Yennefer said imploringly to Jaskier. She turned to Geralt and added, “or you, Geralt, when I sent you to fight my battles.”

Geralt appreciated Yennefer’s apology, but it was unimportant to him, after all this time. Jaskier, however, had recently endured a similar assault on his person and could probably benefit from hearing Yennefer’s apology now. It would do little to alleviate the trauma that Jaskier suffered at the hands of Lord Mathen’s men, but it could prove a useful step in Jaskier’s healing.

“You don’t need to explain or apologize further,” Jaskier said. He reached for Yennefer’s shoulder and patted it gently in an attempt to alleviate her torment. “You’ve done more than enough to get back in my good graces over this past month. Please don’t worry about it any further after tonight.”

“It’s important to me that you understand,” Yennefer said with a sigh. “My desire for a child led me to treat everyone with disregard if they stood in my way. Geralt is going to let me meet his child of surprise as a favour for helping you. Healing you is the least I can do to help things to come full circle now. I can hardly believe how I acted when I was presented with an opportunity to get what I desired most in the world. I need you to understand that I was not myself that day.”

Jaskier studied his fingernails. “I do, Yennefer. And while I appreciate your apology and assure you that we need never speak of that grabby incident again, I do know a bit about desiring something above all else,” he said, lifting his eyes to Geralt. “Something that you would do anything for. Something that you desired so much that, no matter how dangerous, no matter how degrading, you are hell bent on having it.”

Geralt wasn’t certain what Jaskier was aiming at. Surely he didn’t mean that his desire for the witcher outpaced all of his human desires. It had to be something else.

“As much as I appreciate your help and your companionship—both of you, there is one thing missing in my life and I mourn its loss every day,” Jaskier said.

Yennefer looked at Geralt.

Geralt looked at Yennefer.

Jaskier stared at his fingers.

“It’s my music… my lute… it’s gone forever now, I’m sure. I’d do anything to get it back, but even more distressing….” Jaskier’s words trailed off and he went silent.

The rain outside intensified, beating against the windows and rolling off the roof in sheets of glimmering silver. 

It was true, Jaskier might never see his lute again, but that was not what made a rough sob escape his throat.

“The loss of the use of my fingers for this past month… it will take me so much time to get back into performance shape with them… especially since I don’t even know where we would find a lute for me to practice with,” Jaskier said, his voice falling to barely a whisper.

Geralt nodded at Yennefer. He did not need to speak. Of all the things he wished he could give to Jaskier, he knew where one of the most important things could be found. He would graciously accept whatever small role he had in suggesting Yennefer give it to him tonight.

Without a word, Yennefer left the workshop to collect the lute.

Geralt stepped around the workbench and embraced Jaskier. The bard had been forewarned that the potion would make him tired and unstable on his feet. He had dressed in his sleep clothing, a soft tunic in powder blue with matching trousers that tied at the waist. 

“The potion will work,” Geralt said, murmuring promises into Jaskier’s hair as he held him close. “You’ll get the use of your fingers back again.”

“It’s not just that,” Jaskier said with a sniffle. “The time I’ve lost in not being able to practice… and everything else….”

“I know,” Geralt said, stroking Jaskier’s hair tenderly. He hoped that Yennefer’s gift of the lute would be enough to quell Jaskier’s sorrow.

Geralt raised his eyes when Yennefer returned to the workshop. With Jaskier’s face pressed into Geralt’s chest, the bard didn’t see her enter.

Yennefer carefully set the lute atop the workbench and went to Jaskier’s side.

Lightning flashed, briefly illuminating the gardens outside the workshop windows. 

“Jaskier,” Yennefer said, touching his arm to get his attention. “We have something for you.”

“Go ahead, look,” Geralt said, nudging Jaskier’s chin with a finger.

Jaskier turned from Geralt to see what Yennefer had brought into the room. 

Geralt’s only wish was that he could have seen the expression on Jaskier’s face, but his whoop of joy was enough for him to understand how happy the lute made the bard.

“Careful,” Geralt reminded Jaskier, who leapt toward the lute with unbound fingers.

“I will be,” Jaskier promised as he slid his left hand under the neck of the instrument and strummed one light pass on the strings. 

Jaskier’s damaged hands were still too weak to lift the lute, but Geralt hoped they would soon remedy that.

The potion stood ready.

Yennefer’s fond expression told Geralt that they had done the right thing by gifting the lute to Jaskier on this night.

“How did you?” Jaskier asked, looking from Yennefer to Geralt and back again.

“Don’t look at me,” Geralt said. “It was all Yennefer’s doing.” He didn’t dwell on the fact that Yennefer, not he, had procured the prized instrument for Jaskier. This was Yennefer’s time to be appreciated. The mage had suffered enough in her distress over her treatment of the bard. Although the lute wasn’t directly given as an apology, it was comforting to see Jaskier and Yennefer bond over their losses and their desire for something seemingly unattainable.

“Thank you,” Jaskier said, taking his eyes off the lute to address Yennefer. 

“You’re very welcome,” Yennefer said.

“Let me,” Jaskier said, stepping toward Yennefer and pulling her into a warm embrace.

Geralt didn’t know who was crying more tears of joy, Yennefer or Jaskier. This seemed to be just the thing to get the two of them on the same page, now and for the rest of their journeys together. Their friendship and mutual respect filled Geralt with warmth. He sincerely hoped that the diluted potion would help Jaskier heal more rapidly. If the bard survived the potion with no ill effects, Geralt’s night would be complete.

“I hate to interrupt you two,” Geralt said, after listening to the pair of confirmed friends chatter about the elven design of the lute and how it would need to be tuned accurately before Jaskier could get a decent song out of it.

“The potion,” Jaskier said excitedly.

“It’s all ready,” Geralt said, turning the vial over in his hand.

Yennefer laid a hand on Jaskier’s chest and said, “Let’s begin.”

Jaskier stepped away from Yennefer. With his hands tucked safely against his abdomen, he stood in front of Geralt.

Geralt could sense the rapid beating of Jaskier’s heart. The faint sense of juniper wafted from his skin. Geralt dipped his head so their foreheads touched.

“Are you ready?” Geralt asked.

“I’m ready,” Jaskier said.

“Be brave,” Geralt said.

Jaskier bit his lip.

“I’ll be with you the whole time, Yennefer too,” Geralt said. “We won’t let any harm come to you.”

“You should get comfortable,” Yennefer said. “The combination of the potion and the spells will make you very tired.”

“Will I pass out?” Jaskier asked.

“Yennefer grimaced. “You might,” she answered.

Geralt appreciated the fact that she was honest with Jaskier.

“It’s best if you’re somewhere you’ll be relaxed,” Yennefer reminded him.

“As long as Geralt will be with me,” Jaskier said.

“Of course,” Yennefer said.

“Let’s get you over to one of those chairs,” Geralt said, guiding Jaskier to the corner of the room where the plush chairs stood.

In one hand, Geralt tipped the vial containing the potion back and forth, ensuring that the ingredients stayed properly mixed.

“You’re not going to get naked and paint an image of a lute on your belly, are you, chum?” Jaskier asked.

Yennefer playfully cuffed him. “Sit down, bard,” she said with a laugh.

Although Jaskier made light of the situation, Geralt sensed his fear and vowed to keep him safe.

Holding his arms outstretched in front of him, Jaskier flopped down onto the plush chair. The scent of musty furniture wafted through the room.

“Budge up,” Geralt said, sliding onto the chair beside him. “I want to be able to hold onto you, in case you wriggle around a lot.

“Oh, lovely,” Jaskier said, squeezing himself onto the chair so he only took up half the space.

Yennefer pulled a low bench over to the chair and sat on it before Jaskier.

“This treatment will have a two-pronged approach,” Yennefer said with confidence. She draped a plush towel over her lap. “Geralt has mixed the potion that you will drink. I will collect the dregs from the vial and rub the potion onto your fingers, using magic to enhance your healing.”

Jaskier’s eyes went wide and he nodded tentatively.

“I would apply the potion to your hands, but I need to stay beside you in case you fight us and need to be restrained,” Geralt said.

“I’m a lover, not a fighter,” Jaskier said, offering his hands to Yennefer.

Geralt nodded. He could not agree more.

“I’ll be gentle,” Yennefer promised.

Jaskier allowed his fingers to unfurl so Yennefer could touch them.

“Lean forward a bit more,” Geralt instructed as he slipped an arm behind Jaskier’s back.

Jaskier leant forward as directed, but before he did so, he turned to look at Geralt. “I’m a bit scared,” he whispered, wide-eyed.

Geralt did not need to be told this. He sensed Jaskier’s heartbeat, his scent, and the look of fear in his eyes. Despite his proximity to Yennefer, he quietly pressed a kiss to Jaskier’s lips. He hoped it was enough to calm him and to let him know that he was cared for and loved.

Jaskier blinked back tears and turned his attention to Yennefer.

While Jaskier was distracted by Geralt’s kiss, Yennefer had taken each of Jaskier’s hands and laid them on the soft towel. She nodded to Geralt when she was satisfied that Jaskier’s hands were in the right position.

Geralt uncorked the vial and said, “It’s time.” He held it to Jaskier’s lips and tilted it toward him.

Jaskier stuck out a pink tongue to find the edge of the vial, but his eyes did not leave Geralt’s. He drank as Geralt tipped the potion into his mouth.

“There’s a good lad,” Geralt said tenderly. He hoped he could assuage any of Jaskier’s fears with a comforting tone.

Yennefer took the vial from Geralt’s hand when Jaskier had finished drinking. She upended the vial and collected the remaining potion, thick with pulverized herbs, onto her fingers. Setting the vial aside, she took one of Jaskier’s hands in her own and began to trace each finger in its turn, smearing the potion onto his skin.

“I don’t feel anything yet,” Jaskier said, after a while.

“You might not feel anything right away,” Geralt reminded him. “You might just fall asleep.”

Jaskier shuddered. “I don’t want to fall asleep and miss the experience,” he complained.

“Or you might become combative,” Yennefer said. “But Geralt is here to hold you in case you try to fight against the potion.”

“I promise I won’t fight it,” Jaskier said. “I want to be able to play the lute again.”

Yennefer smiled. “That’s it,” she said as she stroked his fingers soothingly. “Keep thinking those good thoughts, calm thoughts.”

“I will,” Jaskier said.

In the silent room, Yennefer began to chant in time with the thunder that drummed outside the window. 

Geralt watched as sparks of lightning travelled up and down Jaskier’s fingers. 

Jaskier, his eyes wide open and enthralled with the magic, settled into Geralt’s hold. 

Yennefer’s voice was soothing and melodic. Geralt was reminded of another time when he was in the presence of such magic. It was on the night that he had served as a bodyguard to Jaskier when he performed at Pavetta’s betrothal party. It was the very night that he claimed the Law of Surprise and was awarded the unborn child of Pavetta and Duny’s union. 

The magic in the air that night was not unlike what Geralt witnessed now, listening to Yennefer’s chants and watching the bright spark of electricity as it mended Jaskier’s bones. It wouldn’t be long before he retrieved his child and brought her to meet Yennefer. The mage would undoubtedly be thrilled if Cirilla possessed a fraction of the magic Geralt saw Pavetta display on that fateful night.

That was it. 

Geralt inhaled sharply. 

Magic.

That was what Yennefer and the child might bond over. Geralt should have seen this when Yennefer first asked for the privilege of meeting her. If the child had any magical ability, it would strengthen Yennefer’s resolve to nurture the child on her own terms. Everything became clearer now. A magical child would be in good hands with Yennefer. Better to be under Yennefer’s motherly protection, than used as a weapon by someone with more nefarious plans for the princess. 

Only Jaskier’s healed fingers were required now.

“How are you feeling?” Geralt asked as he rocked Jaskier’s body to Yennefer’s chanting.

Jaskier tipped his head toward Geralt. “It’s not so difficult. I could probably become a witcher if this is all there is to it,” he said with a yawn.

Geralt laughed at the bard’s penchant for overestimating his abilities. “There was no friend like Yennefer to rub my fingers tenderly for the Trial of the Grasses, I assure you,” Geralt reminded him, nuzzling his hair in a manner that he hoped was comforting. 

Yennefer continued stroking Jaskier’s fingers, electricity thrumming through them while she chanted.

“It feels a little _weird_ now,” Jaskier said.

“Your fingers?” Geralt asked.

“Yes, they tingle a bit,” Jaskier said.

Yennefer looked up at Geralt.

“That’s the potion doing the work,” Geralt said, rubbing soothing circles onto Jaskier’s back.

Jaskier nodded in understanding.

“What about inside?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier made a face as he felt around in his mouth with his tongue. “Nothing, really,” he said.

“Hmm,” Geralt mumbled. He glanced at Yennefer, who had looked up from Jaskier’s hands.

“Well, maybe,” Jaskier said, suddenly.

By the time Geralt’s eyes shifted back to Jaskier, the bard had slumped into the chair, his eyes closed in sleep.

Yennefer’s voice went quiet. She stopped massaging Jaskier’s fingers, while the storm still raged outside. “Is he… sleeping?” she asked.

Geralt checked Jaskier over. His heart rate was normal for a human. He didn’t seem distressed at all. Yes, improbably, the bard was asleep. “Well, that was a bit anticlimactic,” he said.

“Better to have him sleepy, than in his usual state,” Yennefer said, settling Jaskier’s hands on his lap. She wiped the herb residue from his fingers with the towel and remarked, “He’s a feisty one.”

“He is,” Geralt said, resting his hand on Jaskier’s chest. He was comforted by the bard’s even breathing. His chest rose and fell calmly, like a wave on the ocean.

“He’s truly charming,” Yennefer said, wiping her brow, dewy from the exertion of using her magic.

Geralt sighed. “The bit about painting a lute on your belly was funny.”

Yennefer bit her lip as she rubbed the herbs from her own fingers onto the towel. “He does a lot of that,” she said.

“Being obsessed with a lute?” Geralt asked.

Outside, the rain pelted the windows. 

“No,” Yennefer shrugged. “You know how he is. As soon as one of us brings up something serious, he deflects us with a witty remark. He says something to try to get us to laugh.”

“He’s behaving normally, if you ask me,” Geralt said.

“That’s exactly what I mean,” Yennefer said. “He’s behaving _too_ normally. He’s been through a lot of trauma. After he regains the use of his fingers, only half of his healing will be done.”

Geralt adjusted his hold on Jaskier. The bard looked so peaceful in his sleep. His body was warm and unmarred by the injuries that were visible when Geralt first brought him to Yennefer.

“It’s none of my business, but have you discussed what happened to him?” Yennefer asked quietly.

Geralt shook his head against the memory of the blood, mud, and semen that caked Jaskier’s body on that awful night. It seemed inappropriate to be discussing such matters when Jaskier could not intervene on his own behalf. But Jaskier hadn’t really discussed much of what had happened before Geralt found him in the barn—not that it was any of Yennefer’s business. 

“No,” Geralt said, but he did not divulge more than that.

“I tried to talk about it with him when you were off hunting drowners,” Yennefer said. “But he laughed it off like he usually does.”

Like Yennefer, Geralt feared that Jaskier was still suffering from the damage done to his heart and mind. Bruises faded and bones healed, but Jaskier’s spirit was still recovering.

“He was excited about the lute,” Geralt said, taking a moment to stroke Jaskier’s arm tenderly. No matter what misgivings he had about Yennefer providing Jaskier with the most sought-after object the bard desired, he was pleased both that Yennefer secured the lute for Jaskier and that they agreed she should give it to him tonight.

“With any luck, as early as tomorrow, the halls will be filled with song,” Yennefer said with a smile.

Geralt laughed. He missed the bard’s singing and the way his deft fingers danced across the strings of the instrument. He slid a finger across Jaskier’s hand, feeling where the bones were mending beneath the skin. He willed them to heal without any further discomfort.

“Do you think you’ll take him with you when you visit Cintra?” Yennefer asked.

“I hope that question means you truly believe he’ll be healed by this potion and your magic,” Geralt said.

“I trust in my magic and in the powers of the herbs we prepared for him,” Yennefer said. “Of course, he’s welcome to stay here with me while you travel to Cintra.”

“He’ll come with me,” Geralt said. “After all, he is well known to the Cintran court and I’ll need every advantage to convince Queen Calanthe to let me take her granddaughter away for a short while, even if it is my right to do so.”

“If she loves the girl as a mother does, she’ll want what’s best for her,” Yennefer said solemnly.

Geralt admired Yennefer’s commitment to the ideals of motherhood. 

Long ago, Geralt dreamed of what it would feel like to be loved by a mother. He remembered it now, in some shattered part of his mind that was wiped out by mutagens. To experience such a love, unconditionally. To always be forgiven. To be cherished. He had longed for the kind of love that a mother could give, or a lover—if one were fortunate enough to find a heart that beat in time with his own. But those dreams died as each Trial of the Grasses was surmounted. Had he known that his child of surprise could quell Yennefer’s desire to be a mother, he should have offered to introduce the pair long ago.

“You know she may have some magical ability,” Geralt said. It wasn’t really a question. He was certain that Yennefer knew of Pavetta’s abilities. She had to wonder if they had been passed down to her daughter.

“It has been rumoured,” Yennefer said. She acted quickly to put Geralt’s mind at ease. “I’d like to learn if it’s true. I assure you that no harm will come to the girl when she’s in my care.”

“I believe you. It’s your desire to provide a mother’s love,” Geralt said, with an understanding he hadn’t possessed on the day he berated her for the same desire on the mountainside. “I can see that, in the way you treat Jaskier.”

“I do mother him a bit,” Yennefer said with a smile. “And look at you. You only have eyes for him. I told you some time ago that he loves you. I’m glad that you’ve found each other.”

Of everything Yennefer said, at least the first part was true. He only had eyes for Jaskier. In the hours they spent together while Jaskier recovered, Geralt’s love for him had sparked… but maybe that wasn’t entirely true. Perhaps he had loved Jaskier all along, over their many years together as they travelled from town to town. The new addition of the kissing and the touching simply complemented what had already existed.

“How can I believe it?” Geralt whispered.

“How can you believe what?” Yennefer asked. Her eyes glanced toward the windows as a flash of lightning brightened the workshop.

Geralt took a deep breath. He thought about the times when he’d dreamed of love- the kind of love that Yennefer had for a child she hadn’t even met yet. Sometimes, coming down off a potion, with eyes black and his veins thrumming with fire, he’d dream that his mother returned to him. She tended to him and cradled him in her arms. She healed his soul from the damage done when he found himself dropped off on the doorstep of Kaer Morhen all those years ago. But when he awoke, the dream would be gone and Geralt was left with no shred of a memory to cling to as he continued his life on the Path.

“Why would he love me? He could love anyone else on the Continent. Why me? It makes no sense. How do I know that I won’t wake up one day and find that it’s all been a dream?” Geralt asked. “How can I believe that he loves _me?”_

Yennefer leant forward and touched Geralt’s hand. “It’s in everything he does, Geralt.”

Geralt frowned and held Jaskier closer, unwilling to break contact with him for even a moment.

“He loves you,” Yennefer said. “Whether you want to believe that he loves you or not, whether you think you’re deserving or not. He loves you, all the same.”

“No one can love a witcher,” Geralt said.

“Apparently, Jaskier does,” Yennefer said. “He demonstrates that he loves you with everything he does, Geralt. His songs, his devotion to following you, he puts himself in danger to be near to you, it’s in everything he does. It always has been. I don’t think you need any proof other than that.”

“Hmm,” Geralt mumbled. He wanted to believe that what Yennefer said was true. Jaskier genuinely loved him? He just couldn’t believe it. He was of no value at all to the bard. It made no sense. He stifled a yawn and decided that it was an issue for another day.

“I’d best be getting this one off to bed,” Geralt said, patting Jaskier’s shoulder.

“It’s late,” Yennefer said, clapping a hand over a yawn. “I’m exhausted from sending so much healing magic his way.” She stood, while Geralt got his footing on the stone floor of the workshop. 

Geralt leant over and hoisted Jaskier’s sleeping body into his arms. His muscles strained against his shirtsleeves. He took one last look around the workshop while Yennefer held the door open for him.

“The lute,” Yennefer said, remembering to grab the instrument off the workbench.

Geralt carried Jaskier down the torchlit hallway to his room as Yennefer followed with the lute. 

Geralt waited for Yennefer to open the door for them when he got to Jaskier’s room. He set the bard upon the bed, as gently as he could, while Yennefer left the lute on the table. He walked her to the door and bid her goodnight.

“Sleep well, Geralt,” Yennefer said, leaving a soft kiss on his cheek.

“You, too,” Geralt said. “Get some sleep.”

Geralt closed the door and walked to the fireplace with the kindling ready to burn. With his fingers, he cast igni to start the fire. He tugged off his boots while the flames ignited.

Returning to Jaskier, Geralt covered the bard with a soft fur to ward off the chill of the night. He tucked the covers along Jaskier’s neck while he snored softly, unperturbed.

As the fire grew, Geralt added a few logs, positioning them to catch. Satisfied, he went to one of the room’s windows and pulled aside the gossamer drapes. He watched the rain as it streaked down the outside of the windows. Unbuttoning his shirt and letting it drop to the floor, he caught a glimpse of his reflection off the glass when a bolt of lightning flashed. 

Geralt possessed the scarred and damaged body of a witcher. His medallion marked him for his trade. He killed monsters for coin. He was of no use to the beautiful man who lay asleep in the bed. He turned from the window and stepped toward the bed, illuminated by the fire in the grate. He pressed a hand to Jaskier’s forehead, admiring the softness of his cheeks, the curve of his sleeping smile, and the graceful fan of his eyelashes in the firelight. 

Geralt slipped into the bed with Jaskier and settled in for a sleepless night.

~


	6. Chapter Six

The storm outside diminished in intensity while Geralt lay awake, watching over Jaskier. Across from their shared bed, the logs in the fireplace crackled, warming the room from its marbled floor to its ceiling. The rise and fall of Jaskier’s chest as he breathed comfortably lulled Geralt into a state of meditative peace.

Geralt hoped that when Jaskier next awoke, his hands would be healed. He’d play the lute again, after a little practice, of course. They would travel to Cintra and convince Calanthe to let Cirilla spend time with Geralt. He’d bring her to Yennefer, fulfilling his promise to the mage.

The rest would be up to the two of them. 

He secretly hoped that the child did have magical abilities because he knew that would please Yennefer best. The longsuffering mage deserved something for her efforts.

After they returned Cirilla to Cintra, Geralt hoped Jaskier would continue to travel with him. He tentatively reached for the bard and found his hand pressed against Jaskier’s back. Geralt turned onto his side to watch him sleep. Although they were of a height, Geralt quietly wrapped an arm around the bard’s shoulders, serving as a big spoon that held Jaskier close. 

The bard breathed deeply and evenly, lost in his healing sleep.

With thoughts of strength and wellness in his mind, Geralt slowly caressed Jaskier’s shoulders, careful to not awaken the sleeping bard. He was soothed by the motion of his hand skimming over the soft fabric of Jaskier’s sleep clothes.

Everything was falling into place. In these past weeks, Geralt had devoted himself to reversing the damage he had done on the mountain. Although he feared that he could never fully undo the cruelty of his words, he tried. But he was a mutant, a monster, and he would always be so, despite the shards of humanity that sometimes stabbed through from his core to his scarred exterior. He didn’t deserve a friendship with Yennefer, nor with Jaskier. He deserved Jaskier’s love even less. 

Nothing could ever fully make Geralt believe that he was worthy of the bard’s affection. It was incomprehensible to him that Jaskier found any use at all for Geralt in his life, besides the means for acquiring story ideas that he could set to song. But their newfound physical closeness gave Geralt hope for more journeys in the future.

And a future with Jaskier was comforting for Geralt to think about. 

Geralt closed his eyes and nuzzled Jaskier’s hair. He left a soft kiss on the nape of his neck. 

Yennefer had said that the potion and the magic might make Jaskier tired. It certainly seemed like he would sleep through the night. Geralt listened to the constant beat of Jaskier’s heart. The heat of his body warmed their bed beneath the furs, neither too hot, nor too cold. At least Geralt could rest with the knowledge that he had done his best to keep his bard safe, comfortable, and warm, while he slept off the effects of the potion. Even monsters could be good for something, it seemed.

After an hour of peaceful meditation, Geralt was roused from his trance state by the sound of Jaskier’s heartbeat, which had suddenly increased in speed. At first, Geralt was sure that it was nothing to worry about. Jaskier would return to his slumbering state if Geralt splayed a hand across his back and whispered soothingly to him. But Jaskier’s return to a deep sleep was not to be.

“Geralt?” Jaskier cried out.

“I’m right here,” Geralt murmured.

Distant lightning flashed, illuminating the room more brightly than the whispering fire in the hearth. The scent of juniper rose from Jaskier’s body. It hung in the air like the mist after a storm. 

Jaskier flailed restlessly in the bed beside Geralt.

Geralt managed to wrap one arm around Jaskier to hold him steady. He pressed a hand to Jaskier’s forehead and felt the beads of sweat that matted his hair.

“You’re really here with me?” Jaskier whispered. He stopped struggling against Geralt’s hold.

“I am. I’m right here,” Geralt said quietly. “I’m always here if you need me.”

Jaskier turned and reached a hand toward Geralt’s face. His fingers moved anew and Jaskier looked as though he had perfect control over the digits again. But the joy that Jaskier’s healed fingers brought to Geralt made no difference when he felt the bard’s shoulders shake with fear.

“Jaskier, what’s wrong? Is it your fingers?” Geralt asked, taking Jaskier’s hand as he struggled to do something, anything, to help.

“I had a bad dream….” Jaskier said.

Geralt felt a hollow pang of heartache below his breastbone. He did not need to use his witcher powers to see in the dim light that Jaskier’s eyes glistened with tears. Geralt was certain that the abuse Jaskier suffered at the hands of Lord Mathen’s men had taken its grim toll on Jaskier, even in his dreams.

“I’m so sorry,” Jaskier whispered.

“Sorry?” Geralt asked, bringing his lips to Jaskier’s fingers. He couldn’t imagine what Jaskier had to be sorry about. He knew Geralt planned to stay awake through the night, so there was no need to apologize for waking him. And if the bad dream had worried him, Geralt was certain that none of what happened to Jaskier in Lord Mathen’s barn could even remotely be Jaskier’s fault.

Jaskier shook in Geralt’s arms. When a tear fell from his eyes, Geralt swept it away with his thumb. 

“Why are you sorry?” Geralt asked softly.

“For what I did,” Jaskier breathed.

“No, no, no,” Geralt whispered. “You did nothing wrong. You have nothing to be sorry about.”

“Yes,” Jaskier stuttered. “I should have known you were upset about Yennefer. She was so angry with you. And what Borch told you… I should have known that you needed time to think. I never should have tried to talk to you. I should have given you some space.”

 _Fuck_. Jaskier hadn’t dreamed about what happened in the barn. He dreamed about what had happened days earlier, on the mountain, when Geralt was at his worst. 

“No,” Geralt said, stroking Jaskier’s hair, his back, wherever he could reach. “None of that was on you, no matter what I said to you then. I was an idiot. None of that was your fault.”

“Then I should have stayed with you,” Jaskier sobbed into Geralt’s chest. “I shouldn’t have left you there. I shouldn’t have gone down the mountain and left you behind. If I hadn’t left you, none of this would have happened.”

“Shh,” Geralt hushed him, for lack of words that would convince Jaskier that none of what happened was his fault, not on the mountain, and not in Cidaris. It was as if everything Jaskier lamented about their parting had come to a head, spurred by this bad dream. 

And if Jaskier had a bad dream about this now, how many times had Jaskier dreamed that he was at fault for what happened to him when he was beaten? Geralt couldn’t say. He had been too pre-occupied with fighting his own guilt over the mountain incident and tamping down the spikes of jealousy over Yennefer—not to mention assuaging his own doubts about what value Jaskier could possibly find in him. He hadn’t noticed that Jaskier was suffering under the weight of his own guilt for what happened on the mountain.

“It’s not your fault,” Geralt whispered over again, his fingers buried in Jaskier’s hair. 

Outside, the wind blew, and a pattering of rain fell against the window.

When Jaskier’s shaking subsided, Geralt said, “Jaskier, you have nothing to be sorry about. Can you look at me?”

It took some time, but finally Jaskier gathered himself enough to pull back from where his face was buried in Geralt’s bare chest. He blinked his eyes open.

Geralt cradled Jaskier’s face in his hands and said, “Jaskier, it hurts me to see you suffering. I love you so much.” He didn’t take his eyes off Jaskier’s. Finally, it felt good to say it openly to him. Come what may, he felt less like a mutant when he considered the love that overflowed from his heart, all because of the day Jaskier decided to become his not-so-silent back-up.

Jaskier smiled softly and said, “Geralt….”

“Don’t say it,” Geralt demanded.

“But it’s practically common knowledge,” Jaskier whispered with a grin, “that witchers have no emotions.”

Geralt shook his head slowly. “You’ve gone mad,” he laughed, feeling lighter than he had in all the weeks that had passed since finding Jaskier in Lord Mathen’s barn.

Jaskier surged forward and crushed their lips together in a kiss. 

Geralt’s heart filled with love for Jaskier. Even if there were no guarantees that his love would be reciprocated, he was fulfilled by the ability to give Jaskier comfort when he needed it most.

“I know you love me. It’s in your eyes,” Jaskier whispered shakily when he pulled away from their kiss.

Geralt frowned. He wondered if the intensity of his feelings for Jaskier had changed the appearance of his eyes. “Are they glowing?” he asked. 

“No,” Jaskier said. “They’re beautiful….”

“Hmm,” Geralt grunted, appreciative of the compliment, yet he sensed there was more that Jaskier wanted to share.

“I… I haven’t been entirely forthcoming with… you… when….” Jaskier tripped over his words.

“What is it?” Geralt asked. It wasn’t like Jaskier to grasp for the words he wanted to say. There was something elusive in Jaskier’s tone that Geralt could not understand. 

“Back in Cidaris, after I left you, I imagined them,” Jaskier said cautiously.

“My eyes?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier nodded. He looked away, but he continued to speak. “When Lord Mathen’s men were beating me… when they crushed my hands and bent my fingers one by one, so they snapped in front of my eyes… when they hung me from the rafters and whipped me… raped me….”

Geralt winced as Jaskier shared more details of his abuse. The memory of the scent of blood, mud, and semen made him ache. What he wouldn’t give to go back in time to make those monsters suffer for what they had done. It was not the first time he thought that his sword had provided too swift a death for Jaskier’s abusers.

“I kept losing consciousness,” Jaskier said. “But when I would be nearly awake, I imagined your eyes, Geralt. You were with me. It dulled the pain from everything Mathen’s men were doing to me.”

Geralt inhaled sharply. “Jaskier,” he whispered. His hands clutched at Jaskier’s back. He held him as if he might never let him go.

“I imagined you were there with me,” Jaskier said softly, reverently. “It was peaceful. You held me close like you sometimes did when we were in camp on a cold night after we’d gone off on one of your monster hunts. In my mind, I dreamed that you made love to me. I felt safe and warm….”

A chill ran down Geralt’s spine.

Jaskier continued, “But then I’d become more aware of what was happening, and they’d start beating me again with whips, their fists, their hands….”

“By the gods, Jaskier, I promise you, nothing like that will ever happen to you again,” Geralt said, his jaw clenched in anger for what had been done to Jaskier. “As long as I draw breath, I would destroy anyone before the very thought of harming you ever entered their mind.”

“I know,” Jaskier said. He raised his hand to Geralt’s cheek and rested his palm there. “I just thought you should know how it helped me to think about you on that awful day.”

Jaskier’s breath was warm on Geralt’s face. Geralt could not fathom how the mere thought of him, a witcher, had helped Jaskier survive his ordeal. He tried to shake his head, but Jaskier would have none of it.

Jaskier held Geralt’s face in both hands and did not look away. He said, “You helped me to survive, Geralt. I would have died if I couldn’t find comfort by thinking about your beautiful eyes and how much I loved you.”

All Geralt’s doubts vanished at the sound of Jaskier’s words. No matter how Geralt might have argued with himself about how unworthy he was and how no one could love a witcher, Jaskier had supplied him with irrefutable truth that indeed Geralt had served a greater purpose for Jaskier. And Geralt found that, if because of Jaskier’s love for him, he could be the source of comfort to Jaskier in the most horrible of circumstances, he never wanted to relinquish the responsibilities that came with that role.

Jaskier threaded his strong fingers into Geralt’s hair and pulled him closer so he could kiss him again. His tongue slipped between Geralt’s lips and stroked the inside of his mouth.

Geralt relished the feel of Jaskier’s chest pressed against his own as they kissed. His witcher heart beat in double time, thrilled at the closeness he shared with the bard.

When they kissed, Geralt knew he was cherished. Geralt had never felt so important to another being as he felt he was to Jaskier in that moment. The thought of him had given the bard the strength to survive a beating that would have killed a lesser man. Jaskier hadn’t separated completely from Geralt on the mountain. Just as Geralt could not bear the thought that he had sent Jaskier away. They both remained intertwined in the hearts and minds of each other, despite the distance in geography and the words uttered in anger.

Geralt felt Jaskier’s fingers on his naked back, tracing the scars that marked Geralt’s body. Jaskier knew where each one had been earned. He had stitched more than half of them himself, repairing the damage with a needle and thread in gentle hands.

Jaskier’s loving care made Geralt feel adored.

Reaching over his shoulder, Geralt took one of Jaskier’s hands, stopping its journey along the scars. He brought it to his mouth.

“Your fingers?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier touched Geralt’s lips with his fingers, healed anew.

“They feel right,” Jaskier said, his eyes sparkling as Geralt kissed each of the fingers, one by one.

While caring for Jaskier in his sickbed, Geralt had lusted over what it would be like to feel the bard’s hands on him. Now Jaskier fulfilled his desires as his healthy hands and nimble fingers danced over the sensitive skin of Geralt’s chest. He brushed his thumb over a nipple, making Geralt moan. He latched onto Geralt’s neck with his mouth and sucked the skin until it left a mark.

“Jaskier,” Geralt gasped as he slid his hands beneath the bard’s tunic to stroke his flanks. He needed to know that his touch was welcome, and not as a means to an end, milking Jaskier’s seed from him as he lay abed with useless hands. “Can I touch you, still?” 

Jaskier lifted the witcher medallion from where it had settled against Geralt’s neck. 

“I need to know that this is still allowed, now that you're able to touch yourself,” Geralt said.

Jaskier admired the engraving before looking at Geralt with half-closed eyes and said, “Geralt, your touch is always welcome.”

With permission granted, Geralt gasped out an involuntary groan of longing, as Jaskier went back to feeding on his neck. Jaskier’s body curved into Geralt’s, his hairy chest soft beneath the tunic that Geralt wanted to remove at once.

“Let me,” Geralt whispered when he got his bearings. He tugged on Jaskier’s tunic, needing to feel Jaskier’s skin beneath his hands.

Jaskier helpfully tore his attention from Geralt’s neck to the struggle that the witcher had with his clothing. He pushed himself onto his knees and deftly pulled the tunic over his head, exposing his torso to Geralt’s sword-calloused hands.

“Gods, you’re gorgeous,” Geralt whispered.

Jaskier stretched his neck, lolling his head from side to side while Geralt let his hands roam over the bard’s glorious chest and muscular arms. It was everything Geralt had dreamed of during so many nights by the campfire and in Yennefer’s manor while they lay near each other, but never near enough.

When Geralt brushed a thumb over Jaskier’s nipples, the bard laughed aloud and fell forward so their mouths could meet in a messy kiss.

Geralt slid his hands across Jaskier’s back, the scars long healed and the pain of the lash forgotten. 

As they huffed breathless kisses into each other’s mouths, Geralt took the time to bask in the sensations. The touch of Jaskier’s lips against his. Jaskier’s taste, his scent, the feel of his hands on him, comforting and grounding him with his beautiful eyes and the little sounds of pleasure he made.

Jaskier’s sweet voice whispered Geralt’s name over and over again, making Geralt feel so wanted, so adored, so loved. 

Geralt’s cock was heavy and leaking hard within his trousers, but he wanted this night of magic potions and healed fingers to be about Jaskier’s pleasure more than his own. He used his bulk to gently roll Jaskier onto his side, so he could decide how best to dispense what pleasure he could give. He took Jaskier’s face in his hands. Kissing him softly, he let his hands slide to Jaskier’s neck, feeling the lifeblood pulsing strong beneath his palms.

“I want to taste you,” Geralt murmured, no longer worried that he might be rejected, no longer worried that he’d be left alone, abandoned, and unloved.

Jaskier slipped a hand down the back of Geralt’s calfskin trousers and squeezed a globe of his arse. “Have at me, witcher,” Jaskier said, love and lust in his smouldering eyes.

Clambering onto his knees, Geralt kissed his way down Jaskier’s body, newly healed and bearing no sign of the abuse he had suffered on that day that seemed so long ago. Geralt admired the expanse of Jaskier’s ribs as the bard’s chest heaved against his hands. He stroked the smooth skin of his flanks the soft hair at his armpits.

Jaskier moaned in pleasure with every new touch. His fingers happily dug into the sheets as Geralt worshipped him, keeping him awash with sensations not normally associated with the skills of a witcher.

Geralt took his time to admire every inch of bared skin. He licked at Jaskier’s nipples, leaving a damp whorl of hair surrounding each one. Sucking open mouthed kisses to Jaskier’s belly. He inhaled the intoxicating honey and spice that marked the familiar scent of the bard’s arousal.

Only this time, Jaskier’s arousal was all for Geralt. There was no pretty maiden or suave lordling who caught the bard’s eye. It was Geralt who Jaskier desired above all others. And Geralt promised to not leave the bard wanting and unsatisfied.

Jaskier guided Geralt’s head lower while he softly moaned. His fingers tangled in Geralt’s white locks. Jaskier’s fingers were dextrous enough to remove Geralt’s leather hair tie and plunge his fingers into his silky strands.

When Geralt’s mouth reached his cock, he glanced up at Jaskier, catching his eyes, searching for any hint of discomfort that indicated Jaskier wanted him to stop. But he only saw love there. 

“Please,” Jaskier mouthed the word as their eyes met.

By the light from the fireplace, Geralt made quick work of the laces of Jaskier’s sleep trousers, which Jaskier kicked off in a hurry. Geralt peeled down the fabric of Jaskier’s smallclothes, leaving a trail of kisses beneath the waistband before carefully freeing Jaskier’s cock and settling between his legs. 

The bed was large and Jaskier tried to make more room by shuffling backwards on the mattress, but Geralt’s knees reached the edge of the bed and there was no more mattress beneath him. 

Geralt bent his knees and crossed his ankles, his feet hovering over his arse. It would have to do. Truly, he couldn’t have cared less if got a cramp. He let his fingers caress the smooth hairless skin of Jaskier’s inner thighs. 

Jaskier moaned low and sultry.

Geralt sucked a kiss into the intimate skin while his fingers stroked the soft flesh. If he left a bruise there from his mouth, only he and Jaskier would know about it. It made him feel special, like they shared a lover’s secret between only the two of them. He explored further, letting Jaskier’s sounds guide him. His sensitive witcher hearing made him adept at picking out the slightest nuances in the tone of Jaskier’s murmurs and moans so Geralt easily learned what the bard liked best.

Impatient, Jaskier reached for Geralt’s hand and led it directly to his cock. 

Geralt smiled at the bard’s enthusiasm. Now familiar in his hand, Jaskier’s cock was at its full hardness, flush with desire. The nectar of his need glistened at the tip.

“Understood,” Geralt said, and Jaskier laughed from above him.

Geralt inhaled deeply to enjoy the intimacy that he had only dreamed about. He mouthed at the smooth skin of Jaskier’s balls, ripe with seed that needed to be spilled. Finally, he was able to look his fill without the discomfort of voyeurism and without the pretence of simply offering the bard a helping hand during his convalescence. Jaskier’s cock was as pretty as the rest of him. It curved gracefully upward, straining for release in the circle of Geralt’s fingers. 

Jaskier canted his hips, moaning as his cock slid through Geralt’s grasp.

Emboldened, Geralt licked at the tip of Jaskier’s cock, tasting experimentally. He grinned at having his curiosity satisfied. Jaskier tasted like honey and spice, his arousal thick in the air between them. Geralt fisted Jaskier’s cock. He put his mouth to the head of it and sucked. His eyes watered as his lips slid up and down over the hardness of Jaskier’s shaft. 

Up on the bed, Jaskier had used his elbows to leverage himself upward so he could get a better look.

“Gods, you’re good at that,” Jaskier panted. “We could have been doing this for ages!”

Geralt tried to keep from smiling, which certainly would have grazed his teeth against Jaskier’s sensitive cock. As he stroked his hand wonderingly over Jaskier’s balls, his fingers explored lower, teasing the split between Jaskier’s arse cheeks. He found his hole and circled a finger around the tiny blushing flower. 

When Jaskier moaned in a gravelly voice, Geralt took his mouth off Jaskier’s cock.

Geralt was no stranger to a brothel, having lived as long as he had, and he had enjoyed a thing or two that a brothel maiden had done to him. He wondered if Jaskier enjoyed such things, too. 

Instead of pressing onward, Geralt asked first, “Do you like fingers?” 

Geralt’s mouth hovered over Jaskier’s spit slick cock while he waited for an answer. He hoped that the bard liked them. He longed to feel the velvety softness of Jaskier’s body accepting him, but he could understand if the memories of his abuse made Jaskier hesitant.

“Yes,” Jaskier gasped. “Please, Geralt.”

Geralt sucked his own finger into his mouth, getting it as wet as possible. He felt Jaskier tense in anticipation as Geralt teased his hole with the wetness before pushing it into the bard.

Jaskier’s legs fell open, impossibly wider, as Geralt advanced and retreated. The bard cried out to him, begging for more.

Geralt slid another finger in, beside the first. He felt one of Jaskier’s feet pressing against his bare back. Listening to Jaskier’s moans of approval, he returned his mouth to suck on Jaskier’s cock as he stretched the bard open on his fingers. 

Jaskier’s moans of pleasure helped Geralt find a good rhythm between the movement of his hands and his mouth. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the sensation of being utterly desired by Jaskier. It was nothing like his many times to the brothel or in the company of a lover. Geralt was surrounded by Jaskier’s presence in his gasps, his scent, his taste, and the feel of Jaskier’s fingers tugging on his hair.

Geralt was lost in world of lust and the satisfaction he got from taking Jaskier apart. His reverie stopped when, without warning, Jaskier grabbed his own cock and panted, “Stop, stop, stop!”

Geralt pushed himself up with one arm and pulled his mouth off the bard’s cock. “What is it?” he gasped, his jaw numb from the attention he had been giving Jaskier.

“Give me your hands,” Jaskier huffed.

Geralt slowly removed his fingers from Jaskier’s arse and did as the bard asked.

“Help me up,” Jaskier said, untangling his legs and tugging on Geralt until both men knelt facing each other on the bed.

For a moment, Geralt hoped that he hadn’t done anything wrong. His chest heaved and the speed of his heart rate increased nearly to that of a human’s.

Geralt must have looked a bit panicked, because Jaskier quickly slid a finger across Geralt’s swollen lips, fluttered his lashes, and coyly said, “Hello.”

Geralt smiled and took Jaskier by the wrist. He pressed Jaskier’s hand to his chest and returned the greeting. “Hello, Jaskier.”

Jaskier wet his lips with his tongue and leant forward to whisper in Geralt’s ear, “I want to ride you.”

The thought of it sent a shiver down Geralt’s spine. “Are you sure?” he asked.

Jaskier nodded up and down, his eyes glazed over with lust.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Geralt said, concern washing over him. After all, he had thought himself rather well-endowed, and considering what Jaskier had endured over the past couple months, he worried about his well-being.

“You won’t,” Jaskier said saucily. He traced his fingers down Geralt’s chest, stopping when he reached the waistband of Geralt’s trousers.

“Hmm,” Geralt said suspiciously. Then he inhaled sharply as Jaskier squeezed at his cock beneath the soft calfskin.

“I know what I’m doing,” Jaskier said.

Geralt had to agree, as a whining sound involuntarily emerged from his throat.

Jaskier’s newly healed fingers moved deftly to unfasten Geralt. He bared his cock and stroked it with a skilled hand.

Geralt would swear that he couldn’t breathe, such was the effect of the touch of Jaskier’s fingers on his most sensitive flesh.

“Oh, my darling witcher,” Jaskier murmured endearments, all the while. 

Geralt pulled Jaskier into his arms, their chests colliding. He kissed him, long and relentlessly, holding Jaskier close. He felt Jaskier slide the calfskin trousers down over his arse cheeks, the fabric pooling at his knees.

Jaskier pulled back from their kiss and said, “Wait right here.”

Geralt wasn’t about to disobey, but he quickly shucked off his trousers, after Jaskier hopped from the bed.

“Melitele be praised,” Jaskier said as he rummaged through the various potions and salves that crowded the table of medical supplies. “I found what I’m looking for.”

Geralt looked up to see Jaskier triumphantly holding a bottle of unidentifiable liquid. He had a good idea of why Jaskier needed it.

Before Jaskier returned to the bed, he stood over the lute that Yennefer had left on the table. His hand hesitated in the air for a moment before he dropped it and strummed the strings of the instrument.

The sound that emanated from the lute made Geralt’s hair stand on end.

Jaskier cringed. “I could take the time to tune it,” he said, as if he were considering the task. But then he turned his attention to Geralt and tossed the bottle from one hand to the other before adding, “But there’s something I’d much rather do.”

Geralt grinned. Jaskier’s confidence in the bedroom was endearing and rather exciting. He couldn’t wait to learn what the bard had in store for him when they resumed their lovemaking.

Naked, Jaskier took his time sauntering back to the bed. He seemed to know full well the effect the sight of his nude body had on Geralt.

Geralt scanned Jaskier from head to toe, taking the opportunity to admire every inch of Jaskier as he approached. He opened his arms to greet the bard when he climbed back onto the bed.

Jaskier dropped the bottle onto the furs and took Geralt’s face in his hands. He kissed him deeply.

Geralt’s hands went to Jaskier’s back to pull him close as his tongue mingled with Jaskier’s in his mouth. He couldn’t get enough of the sensation of Jaskier’s chest pressed against his own. When Jaskier pulled back from their kiss, his mind reeled at what Jaskier had planned. He had never been with a man before, but he reminded himself that this was Jaskier, his cherished friend, the man he loved—and the man who loved him. Nothing bad could possibly come of their coupling.

“Nervous?” Jaskier asked.

“No,” Geralt answered, his voice rough.

“I can tell when you’re lying, you know,” Jaskier whispered.

Caught, Geralt grunted a revised answer, “Maybe a little.”

“Oh, my dear witcher,” Jaskier said, his hands on Geralt’s shoulder, stroking, calming him as if he were a skittish horse. “It’s going to take some time for you to learned to be loved, isn’t it?”

Like a bolt of lightning, Jaskier struck down the last vestiges of the wall Geralt had built around himself from the time he was a young boy, scared and alone on a dusty road as his mother disappeared from his life. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, but he could only nod in affirmation to Jaskier.

Jaskier pulled Geralt into his arms and kissed him tenderly. His hands stroked through his white hair and fell to his shoulders, accepting him, comforting him, mending him so he felt whole again.

Geralt’s sorrow, born from the hatred he had for himself, disappeared as Jaskier delighted in devoting himself to the witcher and showing him what it was like to be loved. Geralt finally believed that Jaskier’s love was his, all his. 

No longer an abandoned little boy, no longer a witcher filled with self-hatred, Geralt let Jaskier push him down into the furs. It was useless for Geralt to try to will his cock to be any less interested as it curved upward toward the ornate ceiling of Jaskier’s room. Calming his arousal became even more hopeless when Jaskier sat astride his thighs, his balls resting atop the base of Geralt’s cock.

Geralt watched while Jaskier coated his fingers with the liquid from the bottle. With his tongue trapped between his lips in concentration, the bard reached behind himself and worked himself open. Geralt wanted to do whatever he could to help and it seemed like stroking Jaskier’s cock, in the same hand as his own, drove Jaskier mad.

“Yes, please, Geralt,” Jaskier moaned as he opened himself on his fingers, completing what Geralt had started.

Geralt’s breath caught in his throat as he slowly stroked both cocks, trying to remain in control of his arousal, so he didn’t spill over the edge just from the feel of Jaskier’s cock against his own. He let the fingers of his free hand trace a path from the centre of Jaskier’s chest, down through the trail of hair of his abdomen, while he whispered, “my beautiful Jaskier,” truly believing that he deserved Jaskier as his very own.

After a time, Jaskier paused his motions and brought one hand to Geralt’s, stopping the motion of his hand on their cocks. He took only Geralt’s cock in his hand, the thick shaft filling his grasp. Retrieving the bottle of liquid that he used on himself, Jaskier drizzled the slippery substance onto his hand that held Geralt’s cock.

“Geralt,” Jaskier whispered over and over as he stroked gently.

Geralt never thought his name sounded so revered. The liquid felt warm and it was pleasantly scented, even to Geralt’s sensitive nose. The sensation of Jaskier’s hand as he smoothed the liquid over his cock was mesmerizing.

Satisfied with his work, Jaskier’s eyes met Geralt’s as he fell forward to kiss him.

Geralt clutched at Jaskier’s shoulders as they kissed, their cocks sliding together gloriously.

“Are you ready?” Jaskier asked when his lips found Geralt’s ear.

“I trust that you know what you’re doing,” Geralt said. And he did trust Jaskier. He trusted him completely, with his life, with his heart.

Jaskier pushed himself onto his hands and knees. He shifted until Geralt’s cock nudged at his slick and stretched hole.

Geralt watched in astonishment as Jaskier slowly sunk down onto his cock. The clench of Jaskier’s body around him filled him with a bliss that he had never known.

Everything else around the pair seemed to have stopped. The rain outside the window, the trickle of the gentle waterfall, the crackle of the fire in the grate. 

Jaskier paused his movements for a moment, dropping his head to murmur an “I love you,” to Geralt’s lips.

When Jaskier began to move again, Geralt’s satisfaction at being wanted and cherished surged into every pore of his body. Geralt loved the weight of Jaskier on him, grounding him, pinning him with a feeling of safety, wanton desire, and adoration. He tingled with pleasure when Jaskier pushed his hands against Geralt’s chest so he could sit upright and thrust downward more effectively on Geralt’s cock.

“Oh, my darling witcher, the songs I’ll write for you,” Jaskier said as he commanded Geralt’s body to receive the pleasure he bestowed upon it.

Geralt’s fingers pressed into the soft curves of Jaskier’s hips. “Please don’t,” he whispered with a smile, giving Jaskier a smooth thrust.

“Maybe not,” Jaskier said with a laugh.

“Keep this just for us,” Geralt huffed, unable to stop his hips from bucking to meet Jaskier’s.

“I will,” Jaskier promised.

Geralt couldn’t control himself any longer. His fingers dug into Jaskier’s hips as he quaked with pleasure. He gasped as he spilled inside Jaskier, filling him with his seed. In the throes of his pleasure, he fought to tend to Jaskier’s needs as well as he could. Gathering his wits, he reached for Jaskier’s cock to try to afford the bard the same pleasure that he was experiencing. After a few clumsy strokes, Jaskier fell forward, collapsing on top of Geralt in a mess of white sticky spend, laughter, and tears. 

Hugging Jaskier in the close circle of his arms, Geralt kissed the top of his head. He inhaled in wonder at headiness of their mingled scents. Jaskier was right, they could have been doing this for ages. If only he hadn’t been the Geralt that he was before Jaskier moulded him into the Geralt he had now become.

Burying his head in Geralt’s neck, Jaskier pressed kisses there while he caught his breath.

When Geralt’s heartrate returned to normal, he gave Jaskier and himself a few swipes with Jaskier’s discarded tunic in a half-hearted effort to clean up, before dozing off into a peaceful sleep.

Beyond the manor, sunlight slid over the countryside before filtering through the gossamer drapes. While Geralt slept in Jaskier’s arms, a new day had begun. 

~


	7. Epilogue

Geralt listened to the last notes of Jaskier’s song as the music resonated through the garden. Like most of Jaskier’s compositions, the ballad’s plot bore some resemblance to Jaskier’s exploits with the witcher. The newly-composed romantic tale of an injured wood elf, who found true love with his rescuer, satisfied Geralt. He was more than a little relieved that Jaskier promised his bawdier compositions would not be based on their adventures in the bedroom.

“Well done,” Yennefer said as she applauded.

Wearing a richly ruffled doublet, Jaskier bowed courteously. But such formalities were not necessary for the audience of two.

“You sound better every day,” Geralt said, offering his own applause before taking the lute from Jaskier.

Jaskier threw an arm around Geralt and pulled him close. “I’ll sound even better by the time we get to Cintra,” he said.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Yennefer interrupted. “Remember, it’s not going to take as long as you think it will take to get there.”

“Not with your portal sorcery to transport us there and back,” Jaskier said, waving a hand as if to conjure a circle of swirling wind. A puff of condensed breath hung in the chilly air after he spoke.

Autumn had descended upon Novigrad. Geralt awoke on most mornings to find frost decorating the windows of Jaskier’s room. It was with some trepidation that he invited the bard to Kaer Morhen for the winter. He hoped that his witcher brothers would become as fond of Jaskier as he was. Once they met the bard, Geralt had no doubt that they would adore him. But first, he needed to visit Cintra to collect Cirilla and fulfil his promise to Yennefer. 

“Let me help you,” Geralt said, holding the lute case open.

“My last performance for a little while,” Jaskier said, taking a moment to caress the neck of the lute.

Geralt waited for Jaskier to secure the lute in its case before helping him strap the case to Pegasus. The sweet palfrey, a gift from Yennefer to Jaskier, had been Roach’s stablemate during their stay in Novigrad. Although a trip through the portal would take them to Cintra and back, Geralt and Jaskier still needed reliable ground transportation once they arrived in the distant city. Roach had accepted Pegasus without complaint, and so it made sense to save Jaskier the effort of walking alongside Geralt while he rode Roach. Fortunately, Pegasus’ demeanour suited the bard’s style of riding. Geralt wouldn’t be surprised if he saw Jaskier strumming away in the saddle as the horse trotted along. 

While Jaskier fussed with Pegasus, Geralt inspected Roach’s load to make sure everything they needed for their journey was secure. He hated travelling through portals, but he trusted Yennefer to keep him, Jaskier, and their horses in one piece as they passed through.

Yennefer approach Geralt and rested her hand on his arm. “I know you’ll take good care of him,” she said, gazing at Jaskier. “I’ll keep his room ready for when you return. You’ll want to rest awhile before you leave for Kaer Morhen.”

“I’ll bet you can’t wait until we return with Cirilla,” Jaskier said, striding over to the pair with Pegasus’ reins in his hand.

“I’m looking forward to meeting her, as much as Geralt, I’m sure,” Yennefer said.

“Probably more so than me,” Geralt said with a sigh. “I have no talent for dealing with children.”

“You’ll do fine,” Jaskier said. “Besides, Yennefer is going to make Cirilla feel right at home.”

Geralt was a little worried about convincing Cirilla to visit Novigrad. He would tell her about the beautiful manor with a mage whose only wish was to care for her. The lavish rooms, the handmaidens who would be at her beck and call, delicious foods, and magical exploration... perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe she’d even be the sort of girl who would enjoy such a holiday. 

“And if she doesn’t like it here, Yennefer will just do a little of her mind reading to figure out what would make the girl happiest,” Jaskier added.

Yennefer looked at Jaskier with her mouth agape.

“Jaskier….” Geralt groaned.

“What? What did I say?” Jaskier blurted out with no apology forthcoming. “She’s a mage. The mind reading thing is what she does. She’s only trying to help.”

“You know me too well, bard,” Yennefer said, affectionately running a hand through Jaskier’s hair.

“Yenn?” Geralt gasped in disbelief.

Like a key turning in a lock, an understanding came over Geralt.

Yennefer’s mind-reading ability gave her an insight to Jaskier’s thoughts. This was how Geralt first learned that Jaskier loved him. Geralt didn’t have all the answers, but he suspected that Yennefer had some empathy for Jaskier because of what she learned about him when she read his mind. This empathy was what made Yennefer regret groping Jaskier on the day she healed him from the incident with the djinn. Her empathy for him was what moved her to obtain a lute for him, to heal him, and to help him find happiness. 

Geralt supposed the two of them were a lot alike. Both had left their homes at an early age to seek their own path, one where they could use their gods-given talents to make a more fulfilling life for themselves. They followed their passions, despite the suffering they sometimes entailed. They were two of a kind, kindred spirits. He knew well enough not to question the nurturing manner that Yennefer took on when she was with Jaskier. She’d make a fine mother for any child fortunate enough to end up in her care.

Yennefer cleared her throat. “And if we’re done guessing about my magical abilities,” she said with a knowing smile, “it’s time to ready the portal.”

“Fuck,” Geralt muttered, caught by Yennefer yet again.

“If you’re all packed, I need you to take your horses and go stand over by the wall where I can see you and get you into a frame with my hand,” Yennefer directed.

“Goodbye, Yennefer,” Jaskier said, lowering his head to press a kiss to Yennefer’s cheek.

“None of that _goodbye_ nonsense,” Yennefer said, pushing him away. “I’ll only accept a _see you later_ at most.”

“See you later, then,” Jaskier laughed and led Pegasus to the wall, some twenty feet from where Yennefer stood. 

Geralt held Roach’s reins in one hand and waved to Yennefer with the other. “See you later, Yennefer,” he said with a smile in his heart.

Following Jaskier and Pegasus, Geralt walked to the wall with Roach.

“Now, turn your backs to me, unless you want to land on your arses when you pass through,” Yennefer said. “Don’t ask me how I know this.”

Geralt laughed and snuck one final glance at the mage.

Jaskier bit his lip while the breeze picked up around him.

“Scared?” Geralt asked.

“Excited,” Jaskier said, raising his eyebrows.

“Hmm,” Geralt grunted.

After a moment, Jaskier said, “I do hope Cirilla isn’t afraid of travelling through the portal.”

Geralt considered it. “Do you remember much about Cirilla?”

“Of course I do,” Jaskier said. “I’ve met her many times on my trips through Cintra. I’ve even performed at her birthday celebrations a time or two. Why?” 

Geralt was quiet as the wind from Yennefer’s spells spun the air around them. “Do you think I’ll love her?” Geralt finally asked, trusting that he could expect an honest answer from Jaskier.

“Oh, Geralt,” Jaskier said, laying his hand on Geralt’s chest. “All children deserve the love of a parent. I have every confidence that you’ll do what you think is right, my dear witcher.”

Then, with the sound of Yennefer’s voice casting the spell across the garden, Jaskier kissed Geralt.

Jaskier’s words rang true for Geralt. All children didn’t get the love they deserved, however. The best he could do would be to make up for what he lacked by ensuring Cirilla never felt abandoned, not by her own family—and not by him or Yennefer or Jaskier. And he’d always have Jaskier at his side to help him. When Jaskier broke away from their kiss, Geralt would swear that the weight of the two swords on his back had grown lighter. 

“And after we bring Cirilla to Yennefer, we’ll have more time for everything else,” Jaskier said, his words a promise.

“Like what?” Geralt asked with a tilt of his head.

“Time for all the things we wished we’d done if we knew we were destined to fall in love with each other when we met in Posada,” Jaskier said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“I still don’t believe in that destiny horseshit,” Geralt said with a huff.

“Eh, whether you want to believe in it, or not, I love you all the same,” Jaskier said, grinning like a fool.

“Hmm,” Geralt hummed with suspicion. “Sounds like something Yennefer would say.” 

Jaskier took Geralt’s hand in his as the portal of swirling wind opened in front of them.

“Ready?” Jaskier asked, glancing at the portal.

Geralt nodded. He was ready. He had never been so sure of anything.

By the time Geralt found Jaskier, the damage had been done. When he wandered into the tavern at Posada, he was a wreck with tattered clothing on the outside, and he had been destroyed on the inside by Renfri and her murder at his own hands. He had been abandoned by his mother, mutated by the Trial of the Grasses, and spit on by humanity. But like a ruin of a stone wall, Geralt was pieced together by Jaskier’s loving hands. Like a marred table, Geralt still had purpose. And like a mistreated and abused bard, Geralt could be repaired so the damage he suffered might nearly be forgotten when he discovered how important he was to the people he loved.

He squeezed Jaskier’s hand as Yennefer uttered the final words of her spell. With Roach’s reins in one hand and Jaskier’s hand in the other, Geralt walked through the portal and into the rest of his life.

The end


End file.
